


The Italian Job

by otterystkisses, rae1112



Series: Disunification [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Multi, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otterystkisses/pseuds/otterystkisses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/pseuds/rae1112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When America is coerced into cheering Italy up after a bad break-up, Spain convinces everyone that America's "kindness" means a lot more than it actually does.</p>
<p>In which America is bossed around by bureaucrats, Italy is conflicted, Spain and Romano make a lot of things worse, and England finds that karma comes for him at last.</p>
<p>Direct sequel to "When the Cat's Away."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's a few "stereotypes" at the beginning about Italians, please do not be offended! I do not believe in them, but the first part of the story is told in the perspective of a bitter man.

“I’m sorry, I have to do what?” America asked, obviously confused.

The United States Ambassador to the Italian Republic looked unimpressed with his nation’s reaction to a simple request.

It had been a hard few months for the Ambassador as of late. The situation in Italy was tumultuous at best, and disastrous almost every other day. Italian bureaucrats were incompetent and absolutely unwilling to comply with regulations ( _What do you mean, senor, corruption? What corruption? I promise you, Paolo is an angel, the Mafia allegations are completely false!_ ). Negotiations with the rest of the EU quickly turned into a shit show every time the Ambassador attempted to weigh in on an issue ( _Stay out of this, American, the hamburgers are over there!_ ), and the Italian legislative staff seemed to have no interest in bettering their situation ( _You can tell your Mr. Obama to-a, fuck himself, yes?_ ). The fact that Washington ignored his reports and pleas for assistance really was just the icing on the shit-tastic cake the Ambassador had been served when taking the “lucrative” appointment in Italy.

But perhaps the worst part of his job was dealing with the Italian twins who were meant to represent an ancient Republic, but seemed to represent man-children everywhere instead.

The Southern one was a pain in the ass every single day, and the Ambassador always fervently prayed that Washington never had any business that dealt directly with South Italy. Romano was a stubborn monster who didn’t seem to realize what a precarious position his nation was in. It took every lesson in diplomacy he’d ever received to keep the Ambassador from screaming at Romano that he did not in fact appreciate being called a “hamburger bastard”, thank you very much (he also wished Romano would be more original in his insults—America was also named “hamburger bastard”, and at some point it became very difficult for the Ambassador to discern who exactly Romano was bitching about). 

But as horrifically awful as Romano was to deal with, the Ambassador preferred to argue with him any day than to deal with Northern Italy as of late. “The break-up”, as most foreign-service officers at the Embassy declared, “had ravaged poor Italy and left a shell of a man in his place!” While the Ambassador thought the young embassy workers were melodramatic brats most of the time, they did have a point about “poor Italy’s” state of being. He was a broken man.

Germany and Italy had, ah, “parted ways” only three months after the Ambassador received his appointment. Though Italy seemed stressed and conflicted when he had still been with Germany, it was nothing compared to the misery he fell into after they broke up. The small Italian man was a mess of emotions that he could hardly keep out of his workplace (something the Ambassador proudly noted America had no trouble with—then again, that may have had something to do with the fact that not many nations liked America personally).

In any case, the Ambassador didn’t believe in the “power of love” until he met Italy. Now he actively feared it.

“You are to fly to Rome and keep Mr. Vargas company for a while. Escort him, entertain him. All of that diplomatic crap-shoot we pay you for.” the Italian Ambassador said to America, wishing he didn’t sound quite so impatient and demanding. While his statement was curt, surly, and probably gave America the wrong idea, the Ambassador’s stint in Italy had really made the him appreciate his own nation a bit more. Because as far as anthropomorphic countries went, Alfred at least rarely cried in public.

“Ok first of all, you don’t pay me to do shit, and second, you can’t boss me around! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am still your nation, Mr. Ambassador, and I demand and deserve your respect.” America replied, affronted.

The Ambassador backtracked. “I apologize for my tone, Alfred,” he said, clearing his throat, “but you must understand. The Italian bureaucracy isn’t like ours. They look for any excuse to put off work. Every time Mr. Vargas is upset, it’s like the whole damn place shuts down—nothing is processed or negotiated, and I can’t do my job!” he paused to take a breath. “Oh, and the best part, is that when I insist they continue to work, they shove Vargas in my face and ask me to cheer him up! As if I’m some over glorified therapist!” 

America, though he attempted to appear uninterested in his Ambassador’s plight, felt for the man. Humans were so often prone to fits of hysteria, the poor things. And while America usually aimed for acting like a disinterested party where human emotions were concerned, he really couldn’t leave one of his own citizens in such obvious distress. “Come now, Mr. Ambassador. Surely you are an over glorified psychiatrist, at the very least?”

The Ambassador ignored America’s insensitive jab. “I’ve gotten permission from some of the higher-ups to task you with this. You aren’t doing anything too urgent in Washington, and we really need the Italian’s cooperation on an upcoming trade bill.”

America snorted. “Since when have we needed the Italian’s cooperation on anything?”

The Ambassador ‘affectionately’ smacked America’s shoulder. “It would do you well to learn some humility, Alfred, as I’m sure Mr. Kirkland has told you plenty of times before.”

“Ugh, you all promised me we wouldn’t bring him up, remember?” America said, rubbing his shoulder with a pout. The Ambassador remembered that particularly awkward conversation, and wisely chose not to comment on America’s reminder.

“In any case, you aren’t doing anything useful here.” he said instead, handing America a slightly crumpled ticket. Plane ticket, if the British Airways logo was anything to go by. “You’re going, and you’re making Mr. Vargas happy.” Ignoring America’s outraged countenance, the Ambassador smiled. “I hope you enjoy your vacation, Alfred.” 

 

...

Italy was sulking. Again. It wasn’t like he wasn’t aware of it. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand that allowing a personal relationship to affect his business and nationhood in this way was pathetic and terrible and probably really destructive.

But he couldn’t help it! Germany had cared for him at a time when no one else did. It had made Italy feel wanted and special and— _well. It doesn’t matter much anymore, does it?_

He should have probably gotten back to work. That’s what Germany would have done. But then again, Italy wasn’t very fond of Germany at the moment, so maybe he behaving in ways Germany wouldn’t approve of was a way to retaliate. Though it was a shaky justification, Italy ran with it, and slumped against his desk for the third time that morning.

He lay there in relative peace, until his phone began buzzing. He looked up tiredly, then haphazardly wrangled the contraption from his suitcase, and squinted at the screen.

_Incoming Call: America_

Italy raised his eyebrows. “Ve…why would America call me…” he asked out loud. He hoped the superpower wasn’t calling to ask after his Ambassador. Italy wasn’t sure where exactly the man had run off to, but he did know that Romano had been quite short with him the other day…

“Allo?” Italy finally answered.

“ _Italy! How’re ya, buddy? Hope I’m not interrupting anything,_ ” America said, his voice slightly static-y but nevertheless full of the enthusiasm he was (in)famous for. Usually, Italy did not take notice of America’s constant exuberance, but in the past couple of months, as Italy’s own excitement had dimmed, America’s had become exponentially more annoying.

“Um…no, I’m not busy, America…” Italy replied, seeing no reason to lie. 

“ _Great!_ ” America exclaimed, “ _I hope that’s the case for the rest of the week, because I’ve decided to grace you with my heroic presence for a while! That’s exciting, right? Please don’t ask why though, it’s complicated and I don’t wanna talk about it._ ” The whole statement was rushed, and Italy really didn’t know what to make of it. 

“…is this for work?” Italy asked, attempting to clarify America’s confusing behavior.

“ _Work, what? Nah dude, no trade treaties or anything like that, hahaha! I just wanna see you, is that so hard to believe?_ ” When Italy didn’t reply, America plowed on, “ _Haah, uh, whatever. Listen dude, I’ll be in Rome tomorrow, ok? We can spend some quality time together and shit. I already cleared it with your boss. He said you weren’t being too productive anyway, haha. I’m not sure he was joking, either. Anyway, pick me up at the airport?_ ” When Italy still didn’t reply, America’s tone became a touch less friendly. “ _I’m gonna take that as a yeah. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. Or sleep, or whatever Italians do when they say they’re working. I’ll see ya tomorrow, ten o’clock._ ” Before Italy could get offended, America hung up, and the dial tone hummed in Italy’s ear.

Later that night, while cooking dinner for his brother and Spain, Italy continued to ponder the strange, mostly one-sided conversation. America wasn’t really known to make personal visits, preferring to meet only for business or other necessities. The only exceptions to this rule were Canada and England, whom America seemed to think were adequate enough to socialize with. Apart from that, he preferred to host nations in his own country, which, according to him, “was the awesomest anyway, why would I bother going anywhere else?”

“Italia?” Spain’s voice broke Italy’s concentration. “Are you alright? You seem a little out of it today…”

So Spain had come inside from gardening, and had even remembered to take off his dirty sandals at the door! Romano’s constant scolding seemed to be producing results. Italy paused his rapid tomato chopping. “Ve, I’m fine…” he began. He wondered whether he should enlist Spain's help in figuring out America's strange phone-call. Italy was half convinced it was a prank. Perhaps Spain could shed some perspective on the situation, though he was certainly no expert on America's preferences. “I got an interesting phone call from America this morning, which was a little strange.”

Spain instantaneously perked up, as he had been doing for the past two weeks whenever America was mentioned. If Italy wasn’t 100% certain that Spain was unequivocally in love with Romano, he’d be suspicious. 

“Oh?” Spain said, feinting disinterest, “and what did he say?”

Choosing to indulge Spain’s curiosity, Italy replied, “Ve, it was strange. He told me he was coming tomorrow, but not for work? He didn’t really give a reason; he just wanted to spend time together, apparently…” Spain’s face lit up, more so than it had all month, and had Italy been someone who could read any atmosphere ever, he might have recognized the warning signs in Spain’s manic glee. 

“Oh Italia, that’s wonderful news! Finally, _amour_ is on the horizon for you again!”

Italy, who had begun to dice his tomatoes again, nearly sliced his finger open.

“Ve, what—“

“America is interested in you, Italy! You know very well he doesn’t visit others outside of business! Oh, the amour must bloom, I am so excited for you, mi querido!”

But Italy had his doubts.

“Espana…I don’t think that’s what’s going on…”

“What else could it be?!” Spain questioned, feverishly happy now. “Oh, where did Romano go, he’s been in that bedroom for hours, I need to tell—” And he ran off, leaving Italy alone with his thoughts.

And while the Italian was not convinced, the seeds had been planted.

 

.....

“I feel like a prostitute. He literally told me to ‘escort him’ around. Escort him! That is literally the job of a prostitute!” America complained, throwing another pair of jeans into his suitcase. The damn thing was probably over packed already, but America was not in a gracious enough mood to give a shit. Instead, he just stomped on the overflowing pile of clothes in an attempt to wrestle them into submission. “He has no authority over me; I can’t believe the powers that be approved this!”

England, who was watching America wrestle with his clothes over Skype, yawned widely. “ _You do realize it’s four in the morning here, correct?_ ”

America glared at England’s distorted face on his computer screen. “This is important, England! I don’t wanna listen to Italy bitch for a week. It’s bad enough I do it once a month.”

England stifled a second yawn, and fussed with the collar of his shirt. “ _Yes, yes, I understand your concern. It wouldn’t hurt for you to practice some empathy though, Alfred._ ”

America, who had given up on making things more compact and just started to zip the suitcase up, rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for that great piece of advice from you, _Britain_ , the Empire built on sympathy.” He looked at his computer screen to gauge England’s reaction to his snappy comeback, but the Briton was far to pixilated to even make out. Damn Skype, anyway.

“ _There’s no need to be surly with me, America. I’m just saying, it might be good for you. And it might help rid you of this habit of being nasty to me so early in the bloody morning._ ”

Finally forcing the suitcase shut, America looked at his screen again. This time, England could be seen clearly in the small Skype window, arms folded and pout in place. America noticed, though, that the bags under England’s eyes were a bit darker, and that the color in his skin was even more washed out than usual. The glow of his computer screen made the smaller man look a bit translucent, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the freckles sprinkled across England’s cheeks and nose. America felt a twinge of guilt at the obvious exhaustion lining the Brit’s face.

“…Sorry.” America finally replied, a tad reluctantly.

And when England rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, America knew all was forgiven. 

“ _It’s alright, you twat. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t insensitive._ ”

America smiled at this admonishment, but turned to his suitcase once more so England wouldn’t see. “Whatever. Point is, I am coming to Europe, and I am not happy about it.”

England laughed. “ _Oh, but it gives you plenty of opportunity to stir up the drama you love so much!_ ” America threw a sock at his computer screen, and England smirked. “ _I know your education rankings have been dropping America, but I didn’t think you’d forgotten how communication via computer works._ ”

“Now who’s being nasty?” America muttered.

England, perhaps detecting the hint of hurt in America’s tone, dropped his teasing. “ _I’m sure you’ll be fine, love,_ ” he said, changing his tone completely, and America shivered, just like he did every fucking time England accidentally used a term of endearment on him. “ _Italy’s annoying, but you like his food well enough, and he respects you enough not to bother you too much, hm?_ ” he cleared his throat, and America watched him cover his throat with his hand. “ _Besides, you can get him in a compromising position and call Germany over to see. I’m sure the fallout would be hilarious._ ”

America, who only a second ago had been uncomfortable and hurt, roared with laughter. “That’d be bitching!! Haha, Germany would kill me, that’s hilarious!”

Well, nobody claimed that England and America were particularly nice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America arrives, Germany makes a decision, and all Italians are somewhat annoyed.

“Will you shut the fuck up, it is nine in the fucking morning and I am trying to sleep.” Romano muttered sluggishly in Spain’s general direction. Spain rolled his eyes, and continued rummaging through Romano’s closet.

“It’s eleven, Romano. And don’t you have work?”

“Don’t you?!” Romano snapped back, and Spain turned to look at him. He couldn’t help but smile at the Italian bundle of blankets, despite the fact that it was yelling at him. “Your vacation ended ages ago, bastard, go the fuck home.”

Spain shook his head, fond smile in place. “Aw, mi querido, what would you do without me here, alone, hm~?” He dodged the shoe Romano aimed at his head. Yes, probably still too early in the morning for teasing… 

“Why are you looking through my shit, anyway?” Romano asked, finally sitting up in bed. Spain hadn’t been lying, the alarm clock on the bedside table displayed _11:02am. Well, so much for going into the office today. Fuck._

Spain picked up the shoe that had been thrown at his head, inspected it briefly, then tossed it in a pile with the rest of Romano’s ‘weapons’. “I’m looking for that shirt you wore last month, to France’s party? It’s a good fit, and Feliciano didn’t have time to go shopping this morning.”

Romano snorted. “Why, he get distracted by birds again?” Spain shot Romano a look.

“Actually, he’s at work.”

_God fucking damn it, the_ one _time_ —“Look if you’re so concerned with his fashion choices suddenly Spagna, go buy him shit! There’s the fucking door, go to fucking Armani, just stop raiding my—don’t touch me when I’m yelling at you!” Romano’s rant was quickly cut short when Spain catapulted himself into the bed. “Do you hear me, no touching! I will poke your eyes out, bastard!”

But Spain knew an empty threat when he heard it, and he wrapped his toned arms around Romano’s waist with ease. “Aw come on _cariño_ , just a little touching?”

While Romano was sorely tempted to let Spain have his way _just this once_ , he quickly remembered that time Spain tracked mud onto Romano’s nice carpet, and elbowed his boyfriend in the ribs aggressively. 

“NO touching!” he shouted, while Spain wheezed in the background. Deciding it was as good a time as any to get out of bed, Romano rolled away from Spain’s (now curled up in agony) form and lazily stood from his bed. “Are you going to clean up this crap fest you created?”

“In a while,” Spain wheezed, still recovering from Romano’s sharp jab. He also attempted to sit up on the bed, though the tangled sheets and blankets did not make it an easy task. “This’ll go by faster if you help me find the shirt…”

“Why is he at work?!” Romano bitched, interrupting Spain mid-thought. “Wasn’t America supposed to come today? Did he fucking forget, that stupid—“ 

“Now, now, Romano. America’s flight was delayed,” Spain quickly explained, adding “and you should be nicer to your brother.”

Romano rolled his eyes. “I’ve _been_ nice to him. Why do you think I stole Germany’s credit card information last week?”

“That was _you_?! Romano, Germany accused China of cybertheft—”

“The point is, bastard, I’ve been plenty nice. And he’s just been a bitch. I don’t know how you can stand it—“

“That’s the point, I _can’t_ stand it!” Spain interrupted uncharacteristically, making Romano abandon his planned rant. Spain was usually accommodating to a fault, perhaps a bit too much for Romano’s taste. It was probably the reason why Italy spent so much time at their place. It had never seemed to bother Spain much, although Romano should have known Spain was prone to suppressing any negative feelings until they burst out into the open (usually at parties, or inappropriate get-togethers).

“He hasn’t left us alone for weeks, Romano, and I’m tired of it! You know I love Italia, but even I have a limit and I think he’s _hitting it_!!” Romano breathed in, surprised, and Spain continued, “I feel for your brother, I truly do, I would be devastated if _you_ abandoned me—“ Romano blushed fiercely at that, but Spain ignored him “—but enough is enough! Now you and I both know America is an absolute dickbag, but _dios mio_ , that seems to be Italy’s type! Now Romano, if you are as fed up with this as I am, than help me find this damn shirt, because America likes red, white, and blue, and _by god, we are going to give him red white and fucking blue!_

When Spain was finished, Romano quickly nodded, and they both made their way to Romano’s closet, looking for the nefarious shirt. As Romano dug through his collection of designer trousers, he couldn’t help wishing that Spain would abandon his plan for a second, because Romano was seriously aroused, and it was difficult to concentrate on finding any article of clothing.  
…  
Italy had left work at noon (after a disturbing encounter with Spain and Romano, who insistently shoved some shirt at him with great intensity), and was at the airport at 1:30pm. Which was unfortunate, because even with the delay, America’s flight had arrived at 12:30. 

Italy knew America was easily annoyed (no matter how hard the superpower denied the fact), and he would probably complain about European laziness for hours on end, but Italy could hardly help traffic conditions. Rome was notorious for its terrible traffic, a half an hour trip turned into a two hour one more often than not in the beautiful European capitol.

Besides, Italy had planned to leave at around eleven thirty, and he would have managed it, if it weren’t for the fact that a) Romano and Spain burst into his workplace, shirt in hand, as he was about to leave, and b) Germany called. 

Now, it wasn’t that Germany never called. They were in the same stupid Union, after all, communication could hardly be avoided. Usually, however, he requested to speak to Romano, and Romano (after cursing at Germany for at least five minutes) managed to discuss whatever business needed to be done. Italy knew for a fact Romano almost never told Germany the truth about import/export rates, corruption within their government, or Mafia influence (Romano _especially_ loved lying about the Mafia), but he and Germany had a working relationship, one Italy really no longer needed to be a part of. 

So it was extremely bizarre when Italy saw Germany’s name flashing on his personal cellphone. 

“Hello?” he’d answered, clutching tightly at Romano’s abused shirt. 

“ _Italy._ ” Germany had replied, clipped and monotonous as ever. “ _How are you._ ”

It didn’t sound like a question when Germany said it—somehow, it sounded like a demand. And out of habit, Italy promptly replied “Fine, grazie for asking!”

“ _Hm._ ” Germany had said, which used to spur Italy into taking over the conversation with tales of his day, or whatever happened to be on his mind. He had to fight his reflex to do just that.

“ _I’m calling because I think Romano has interfered with some paperwork I requested, and I wanted to see if you knew anything about it._ ” Germany eventually said evenly. “ _Memos to my Prime Minister were lost, as well as correspondence with India and Russia. My credit card also seems to be receiving charges from Roman outlets._ ”

Italy, who normally jumped at the chance to assist Germany in any way, was quite surprised when he heard his own voice, “Ve, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that, Germany…maybe ask America? He’s been to Rome recently.” Well, America _would_ be in Rome in a couple of hours, so it wasn’t exactly a lie…

Germany began huffing on the other end. “ _Grph—America? What is he doing in Rome, he has no immediate business with any of us._ ” Though it didn’t sound like it, it was about as close as Germany could get to inquisitive, and Italy began to relish the conversation a little.

“Yes, well, he isn’t here on business. He’s here to see me. So if you excuse me, I must be on my way. Was there anything else?”

It was the most serious and composed Italy had been with Germany since the breakup, and it was extremely encouraging, especially when his statement was met with a stony silence from the stoic German. 

“ _…No, that was all._ ” Germany eventually replied, “ _Good day, Italy._ ” And with that, Italy’s ex-boyfriend hung up the phone, and the Mediterranean nation allowed himself a small jig of victory. _I can get through this_ he thought to himself easily, settling in a car for the airport.

Now, however, as Italy arrived fashionably late to pick up the only current existing superpower (who was likely pissed and hungry, never a healthy combination), he felt his mood dip again. Why was he so happy about making Germany feel like crap? And why did he let Romano continually get away with committing fraud for revenge? The whole situation was messed up, and it probably would have been a good idea to call Germany again, just to apologize for his unusually curt attitude…

However, Italy’s contemplations were brought to a swift end when he heard a loud voice screech “Italy, dude, what _the fuck_ , you were out here this whole fucking time?!”

Italy quickly turned in the direction of the shout, panic setting into his eyes. There was America, picture perfect as usual (no one denied the superpower his looks), albeit looking a bit harassed. Italy realized that he and his driver had been idling at the entrance of the airport for at least ten minutes, and it might have been a wise idea to actually go inside and fetch America personally.

“A-America, glad to see you’ve arrived safely…” the Italian stuttered, all thoughts of calling Germany fleeing from his mind. 

“Huh, yeah, safely.” America said savagely, “I had a stopover in London, so I saw England for a millisecond, and he had the foresight to warn me that _your pilots cannot land for shit, Italy._ I thought I was going to die on a fucking commercial flight— _in economy class_ —and then I would have resurrected in some random ass Italian morgue, and have to explain to some poor mortician why the guy who was dead as fuck five seconds ago just rose from the dead craving a hamburger.”

Italy didn’t have the heart to tell America that he would probably resurrect before the police managed to relocate him to a morgue, so he merely nodded at the taller man, hoping to placate him. 

However, America was still visibly upset, throwing his rather heavy suitcase at Italy’s driver. “Why were you so late, anyway?”

Italy debated telling the truth, and explaining to America that he’d just had a very emotionally draining phone call (usually any mention of Germany around Spain and Romano got them to pardon whatever misdeed he’d committed), but America did not seem to be in a particularly sympathetic mood. Instead, Italy replied, “I got a phone call from Ukraine, asking me to house a few people. You know, since Russia—“

“Ah!” America interrupted, mood swiftly shifting, as Italy had hoped it would, “Say no more, we all gotta pull together if we wanna see that bastard fail.” Italy breathed a sigh of relief. Say what you wanted about “reading the atmosphere”, Italy had survival instincts that put most predators to shame.

“So, erm, shall we go?” Italy asked, fighting to keep his nervous tremor under control. America, seemingly placated for the time being, shot Italy his signature Hollywood smile.

“Hell yeah, dude!” he said rambunctiously, slapping Italy on the shoulder, appearing not to notice that the slap propelled Italy into the car’s beamer. Hard.

…

“Sorry, where are you going?!” Prussia asked, bewildered, for the fifth time that day. As he watched Germany meticulously repack his suitcase, he couldn’t help but think it was all too good to be true. “Are you leaving the country?”

It had been months since Germany had last left Berlin, and Prussia was quite frankly getting sick of his darling brother. The younger German had not exactly been a barrel of sunshine as of late, and as a result, he behaved like more of a hard ass than usual (and that was truly quite an achievement). Prussia hadn’t been able to sneak France and Spain in for a basement party for _weeks_ , and it was beginning to be a buzzkill type of situation. 

Of course, Prussia felt his younger brother’s pain, but his sympathy could only stretch so far. Especially since Germany kept drinking all the Heineken. 

“Don’t sound so disappointed, bruder.” Germany grunted, but it did nothing to stifle Prussia’s glee. 

“How long will you be gone for? Does this mean I have the house to myself?”

“It means I’ll send Austria to babysit you again if you don’t _shut up_. 

Prussia found he could be quite obedient when faced with a potent threat. Austria was not a kind keeper, especially with Hungary in tow. Prussia considered arguing with Germany, and pulling seniority, but unfortunately that trick had not worked since the turn of the century. 

“I’m going to Italy for a few days,” Germany continued, “I highly suspect Romano for the credit card fraud—“

“Wait, I thought you said that was China?”

“—and I intend to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” As usual, any input on Prussia’s part was ignored, as Germany continued systematically putting away his shoes. Prussia rolled his eyes.

“Does this mean you’ll stop ignoring Italy?” Prussia asked, determined to get something resembling vulnerability from his little brother. Perhaps this was a sign of a breaking point for Germany—the beginning of a downward spiral, from which Germany would recover, strong, lively, and—

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Prussia; I would never ignore a colleague.” Germany replied evenly, and Prussia gave it up as a lost cause.

…

Italy sat on one side of the leather car seat, eyeing America curiously as the other nation bickered with one of his only friends in the entire world (and if that wasn’t a sad state of affairs for a superpower, Italy didn’t know what was).

“England, dude, I’m sure you just left them lying around in your house somewhere. You _know_ how easily you lose things bro, have you checked your desk?”

When they’d first sat in the car, America proved to be as pleasant as usual, laughing at everything Italy said, and responding in that larger than life manner of his. It was rare that Italy felt insightful and interesting (considering the company he kept, he was lucky if he was even heard over Romano’s constant commentary and bitching), but America, when it seemed he paid attention, could truly make one feel like they’re the most important speaker of the century.

However, that feeling never lasted long. Long ago, for instance, when Italy had met America for the first time, he’d thought that he found a kindred spirit—America was seemingly a nation unconcerned with appearing unemotional and calculating, he couldn’t “read the atmosphere”, and there seemed to be an idealism which poured out of him, the kind Italy dreamed he could get back. As a result, he had been very fond of the former colony, defending him (at least rhetorically) when France, Prussia, and England used to complain about what an upstart and “pain in the arse” America was.

However, it didn’t take long for America to show his true colors, and it quickly became apparent that America was out for power and dominance just like every other nation Italy associated with (including himself, when he had been younger, though the days of him being a world power were long gone). In fact, at one point in the twentieth century, it seemed that America felt no real emotion at all, and was only capable of false praise and fake grins (then again, the Cold War had been hard on them all, and a drunken Canada had once revealed America had actually been a complete emotional wreck from the beginning of WWI to the end of the Cold War). Still, ever since, Italy had been quite weary around America, and he certainly refused to mistake the younger man for a heroic idealist ever again.

None of this logical reasoning did much to take away from America’s charm, however. Perhaps because he _was_ a superpower, or because he was a confident young nation, or simply because he was easy on the eyes, most nations found him hard to ignore. Even his geopolitical enemies, such as Russia and Iran, were often drawn to America’s presence, despite themselves. Because of this, Italy had been thrilled for the first twenty minutes of their conversation in the cramped Italian car, discussing American movies and Italian enthusiastically in a way he had not been able to in months. Soon enough, however, the spell was broken, and America began receiving all sorts of phone calls, which, instead of ignoring, he immediately answered. Enthusiastically. First, it had been the Italian Ambassador, whom Italy could hear shouting through the speaker, and whom America handled with a laughable ease. Then, an advisor of America’s president had called almost immediately after, and America seemed to have the greatest time describing every single passing Roman attraction he could see out of his window to the poor woman. Worst of all, however, was once America hung up, and Italy assumed they could resume their conversation, the superpower started making phone calls _himself_ , first leaving a message on Canada’s answering machine (“Look bro, I’m finally calling you, not texting, and yet you refuse to pick up!”), then calling England, who he’d been talking to for twenty five minutes now. Italy wished he could subtly urge the driver to speed up a bit so they could reach their destination faster. But America was a nation of immigrants, and one never knew what languages he could speak at any given moment. 

“Huh, I don’t know, it’s usually there…maybe check your brother’s closet? He likes to hide stuff from you.”

Italy listened to England’s warbled reply, which involved _wankers_ , _trouser straps_ , and _fitted socks_ , which for some reason made America laugh hysterically.

“Wales _would!_ ”

Italy tried to tune out their dull conversation, but it was hard, considering America’s voice could cause the occasional earthquake. However, distraction came soon enough in the form of a buzzing from Italy’s pants pocket. He frowned, ignoring America’s boisterous laughing, and quickly took his phone out. He saw a message from Romano, who almost exclusively texted Spain, and his frown deepened.

_potato bastard is coming 2night. i want ur ass back here PRONTO IDIOT!_

Italy blanched. _What?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a long hiatus for a not worth it chapter. BUT it's summer break, so I should be a lot faster!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things move slowly. Everyone arrives. Italy cries multiple times. England faces his demons on a tiny balcony.

Italy had made a very interesting noise after reading Romano’s text, one that had his driver eyeing him with concern. The brunette attempted to motion that he was fine, but he didn’t quite manage it, as he was still in shock. Germany? Coming _here?_

The Italian quickly glanced over to America to see if the superpower had noticed anything. To his relief (and slight annoyance), America seemed to find nothing wrong, even with the driver turning back to look at them every five seconds. Well, Italy always identified with America’s state of oblivion, if nothing else…

After reassuring his driver he was _fine_ with another sharp gesture, Italy turned back to his phone, and swallowed thickly.

**what do you mean fratello?**

It didn’t take long for Romano to respond (it never did when he was angry):

**don’t u fucking play dumb wit me his secretary said u told him to come**

Italy shook his head in disbelief. He didn’t remember telling Germany to do anything. He hadn’t visited Rome personally in three months, and Italy hadn’t seen him outside of a professional setting in even longer than that. _What the hell is happening?!_

He turned to look at America again, who seemed to be smiling fondly, eyes unfocused and mussing his hair slightly. Well, Italy figured, he’d had enough personal time to chat with whoever. When in Rome…

“America!” Italy exclaimed, startling America into eye-contact, “Ve, we’re almost there, tell me what you want for dinner! We can always make—”

“Pasta?” America interrupted, looking slightly peeved, “Look, England, I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow when you’re off work, hm?”

“I was going to say hamburgers…” Italy said softly as America hung up. At his soft admission, America sighed and put his phone in his jacket pocket.

“Make it a cheeseburger, and I’m sold,” Italy nodded, albeit reservedly, and America rolled his eyes, “Look, Italy dude, I’m sorry, alright? I’m not really used to people who…don’t snap back at me, I really don’t mean to be rude,” Italy continued nodding, though his eyes began to widen in amazement. Since when did America apologize? When he turned to look at him, the other man was staring determinately out the car window, looking a tad put out. When he noticed Italy staring at him, however, he quickly looked back, smile begin to form again, and said “Will you forgive me? Then make me a wicked cheeseburger?”

Italy smiled back, already texting Romano to begin preparations, “Ve, of course! You’ll love Romano’s stuff, he knows what to do with the meat and stuff, and Spain’s found the best tomatoes from a market by our Villa…”

America laughed loudly (seemingly his only volume), and Italy breathed a sigh of relief.

“So I take it we’ll be eating with Romano and Spain, then? Is my hotel close by?”

Italy began to nod, but quickly cut himself of. _Dio, what about Germany? ___

__It occurred to Italy that Germany probably already left Berlin if he was going to arrive by tonight. Not only that, but he must have left almost immediately after his conversation with Italy, and he probably wanted to confront Romano with accusations and get to the bottom of his credit crisis and lost memos, and he would probably get there right around the time Italy and America did…_ _

___America, crap!_ Italy felt a panic attack coming on. America, who he’d lied about to Germany on a petty whim, who, in Germany’s mind, has been in Rome for ages and not a mere three hours, including isolation in an airport…_ _

__“…I think Germany will be joining us as well,” Italy finally added, decision made, “…with Romano and Spain of course.”_ _

__America raised a skeptical eyebrow, “…Germany? You two are, erm, friends again, or…” He attempted to play it cool, but Italy could see the rampant curiosity burning in America’s eyes. And he could hardly blame the younger man. His breakup with Germany had been the main subject of gossip amongst nations for months now, mostly because Germany was completely silent about the whole affair, and Italy wasn’t very forthcoming with information either (though he was plenty forthcoming about the way the situation made him _feel_ ). And while Italy wished for privacy on this very personal matter (especially since he was still prone to bursting into tears if he eyed beer for too long), it didn’t seem he could maintain it if he wanted America on his side. And he _did_ want America on his side, because perhaps, if God above allowed it, perhaps America could be bribed to lie about when exactly he arrived in Rome. Dio, the man hadn’t even been in Rome a _day_ …_ _

__“…Ve, we are not exactly friends….” Italy began, noting the way America shifted to attention, and it was a bit titillating, in all honesty, having America’s full attention, for whatever reason. “He is coming, I think, for business matters. But also, I believe, because he is curious as to why you are here, America. In Rome.”_ _

__America frowned. “Is that any of his business?”_ _

__“Well,” Italy felt his throat begin to constrict. But now was no time to be a coward! “Of course it isn’t…except…I do not think he expected you in Europe. I think he suspects you are here…on “secret” business? He has become…quite controlling, I think, in the way European business is conducted, and I, erm, do not think he would appreciate any deals we might make, without at least consulting the EU, or…” he trailed off, realizing quickly that it was hard to explain Germany’s motives to anyone, let alone a non-European. America certainly seemed confused, if the furrow on his brow was anything to go by._ _

__“I thought you guys were your own separate countries still. Who is he to come in and control your business?”_ _

__Italy shifted, replying “He is not trying to consciously do it. Uh, control it, that is. It is true, any deals I may make could have adverse effects on what he’s trying to do…”_ _

__America nodded, and the conversation paused. Then he asked, “Is…uh, is this why you guys were having problems?”_ _

__And the time had come. Clearly Italy could not properly explain Germany’s motivations to anyone. But if he was going to convince America to play the part of possible credit card identity thief ( _Romano,_ fratello, _your heart is in the right place, but you have been spending too much time with your Mafia acquaintances, if you think theft is a good revenge_ ), then he would need to satisfy something. Namely, America’s curiosity. _ _

__“Ve…that was part of it, yes.” Italy answered. “I thought he was overstepping his boundaries when it came to the way we—that is, Romano and I—conducted our business and governance in Italia. He complained, constantly, that we were not doing enough…he said, we were lazy, and that we didn’t want to get better…” his eyes began to tear up, though he blinked hard to attempt to ward off any impending waterworks. “I…wasn’t much nicer, I told him that just because he was more stable now did not give him the right to control our lives…a-and when we were together, I accused him of picking on me, and he said it was because he loved me, but then I looked him in the eyes and told him not to lie to me, to say it again, and he-he—“_ _

__Italy burst into loud wails, a little impressed with himself that he’d managed to hold off for so long. The driver looked back again, now bewildered to new heights, but this time, it was America who waved him off. He then put a consoling arm around the shaking Italian, softly whispering a consoling and empathetic, “That sucks, dude.” It served to make Italy cry harder._ _

__The Mediterranean nation did not know how long he cried, curled up to America’s side, with a terrified driver sitting at the front, doing his absolute best to ignore the loud wails from the back. Italy did become aware that at some point, the car had stopped moving, and they were now parked in front of the building where Italy and Romano shared an apartment. Looking up from America’s shoulder, he spotted Spain’s rental car, meaning that both his brother and his boyfriend were home, hopefully cooking. Romano had never replied to Italy’s last text._ _

__“Ve…we’re here…” he said, a little unnecessarily._ _

__“Indeed!” America replied, “Just wanted to give you a chance to let those feelings out, man. Won’t look too good when Germany comes, to have those red-ass eyes.” Italy nodded in agreement, and America continued, “You look a bit better though. Anything else you wanna say, before we go up?”_ _

__Italy nodded, feeling his discomfort slip away. “Si, America…would you be willing to retroactively extend your stay in Rome?_ _

__

__________________________ _

__

__England had finally found his missing keys, albeit in a small pile of dirt near the front of his garden. And by “garden”, he meant in the mess of potted plants he had managed to fit on the small porch of his London flat. An eyesore, perhaps, to his neighbors, and to his new, prickly Scottish landlord, but to him, it was the small patch of greenery to offset the constant grey hue of London town. England loved the city, it was his heart and soul, but living in the gritty part of urban London really could make one quite cross and cranky and desperate for a bit of green._ _

__“Was that America you were talking to on your mobile for so long?” England turned to find his oldest brother, Scotland, shuffling through the main doorway, maneuvering his raincoat onto a hook. Evidently, he was back from his meeting with a local MP, and considering the lack of visible bruising, it had probably gone well. England sighed in relief. “I left like an hour ago and Wales said ye were still bitchin’ at him as of two minutes ago. Thas not exactly attractive, Wart, word of advice.”_ _

__England harrumphed, and made his way inside from the balcony. “Were you the one who buried my keys in a potted plant?” he asked, choosing to ignore Scotland’s commentary, as usual._ _

__Scotland rolled his eyes. “No, why would I? Ye prolly dropped it in there when ye were waterin’ them last, Christ, yer such a space case.” He made his way toward the kitchen, asking “Anythin’ interesting from across the pond?” England heard the telltale clanking of tea-making, and quickly followed Scotland into their cramped kitchen, watching as the red-head rummaged around, looking for the elusive loose leaf tea._ _

__“I’m not a space case.” England said, indignantly, ignoring Scotland’s exaggerated eye-rolling, “and I think I’d notice if I dropped anything into a pot I was watering. Not to mention, it was buried in there. Someone clearly took the time to make sure I wouldn’t find it.”_ _

__“Beats me, Sherlock, yer gonna have to solve this one on yer own,” Scotland replied, before lifting the tin of loose leaves (he’d found them on the back shelf, where Wales had likely hid them, he could be quite selfish when it came to quality tea) and shaking them at England, a tentative offer of peace. England nodded, recognizing his bitching would probably get him nowhere in this case, and leaned against the kitchen doorway._ _

__“He’s in Europe, actually.” England said, answering Scotland’s earlier question. The older nation raised a thick brow, prompting England to elaborate. “In Italy. He’s building relations. Or babysitting, I’m not quite sure. I didn’t really get a chance to inquire, I was…” England frowned, reddening a bit, “well, I was asking his opinion on where my keys would be, I didn’t really get a chance to ask—“_ _

__“So ye were too wrapped up in yerself to ask your bloody _best friend_ why he was in Europe?” Scotland interrupted, grinning at England’s exponentially darkening face. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”_ _

__“For your information, I know exactly why he’s here. A diplomat asked him. He’s doing a citizen favor.” England bit out, not liking Scotland’s smug expression. “And I am not as self-obsessed as you’d like to believe.”_ _

__“Ah yes, the exciting chronicles of yer lost keys, which, may I add, ye lose every week without fail, are _far_ more fascinatin’ than America’s European crusade, which happens about, hmmm….every two years?” He put the water to boil. “Excludin’ visits to London o’course. But then again, if ye have yer way England, London won’t be a European city much longer.” _ _

__As was often the case, England quickly became too angry to listen to Scotland’s accusations and analysis of his character, so he huffed once more and left the kitchen and his brother without another word._ _

__Well, almost._ _

__“And I do not lose my bloody keys every _week!_ ” England roared from the balcony window before slamming it shut behind him. His plants were infinitely better company than any of his brothers anyway. _ _

__He sat down on the small stool he had managed to maneuver onto the porch, minding the roses and vines. He breathed in deeply, and attempted to sort through his thoughts. Scotland was right, of course. America hardly ever made trips to Europe, and when he did, England never wished to hear about them. He was aware that his European colleagues were far better hosts and were far more charming than he could ever hope to be, and it wasn’t something he wanted rubbed in his face. Though America did often visit London, he spent most of the time with Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and himself (England) collectively, rather than individually with England alone. When by some miracle all three of his brothers were out of the house, England and America usually ate take away and watched trashy movies and television programs, nothing particularly interesting or riveting. If by some chance America shifted too close, or swung his arm into England’s personal space, England was always careful in maintaining his distance, something none of the other Europeans seemed to have trouble with (bridging distance, that is). Still, England supposed that the gentlemanly thing to do was to stop being a complete twat, and become the friend America so desperately needed. And if closeness via friendship was the closest he’d ever be to America, well, there were worse positions to be in. He pulled out his phone, mind made up._ _

___**Tell me what’s happening with Italy, yeah? Has he cried yet?”** _ _ _

__Not even a minute later, America replied, and England grinned widely._ _

___**Like a baby. I got all the deets for you, call me tomorrow!** _ _ _

__

_________________________________ _

__

__“So, I’ve been in Rome three days.” America said, making sure he had every part of his story down. “Or was it more than three days?”_ _

__“I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, so don’t be too specific.” Italy replied, cutting tomato slices for the upcoming cheeseburgers._ _

__“He’ll see through this in a minute, idiot!” Romano called from the other room, prompting Italy to sigh softly. America frowned (and really, he was frowning far too often on this trip—wasn’t the Mediterranean supposed to be relaxing?), and turned to the room where Romano was unloading groceries._ _

__“We’re doing this to cover your ass, aren’t we?” America replied, and Romano was condemningly silent. Italy smiled gratefully._ _

__“Ve~! Grazie again, America. I don’t know what I was thinking, lying to Germany like that…”_ _

__America waved his hand dismissively, feeling particularly heroic. “Don’t sweat it, dude.”_ _

__Germany had apparently arrived at the airport ten minutes ago, according to Romano, and was now on his way to the Italies’ spacious apartment. Which was very modern, and trendy, and smelled like fresh food and happiness (if happiness had a smell). America was distinctly impressed with their whole setup. Though it was nowhere near the size of his New York penthouse (the smallest of the properties America owned), it nevertheless proved to be a quaint little European getaway, with matching furniture and stylish decoration, including elaborately painted African vases (Moroccan? America was never good placing that particular style), medieval-Japanese paintings (some which looked remarkably like the ones hanging in his DC apartment…it seemed Japan was not as exclusive with his gift-giving as America thought), and grandiose patterns from the curtains to the tablecloths, which managed not to overpower the overall aesthetic. It seemed Romano and Italy were artistic as ever, which wasn’t a particular surprise to America (there was a small corner of the apartment he’d stumbled upon which seemed to house various German-made decorations— _that_ had been a surprise, and had made America decide that exploring an apartment that wasn’t his was a markedly bad idea). _ _

__Feeling distinctly unhelpful after his run-in with the hidden German treasures, he asked “Do you need a hand, by the way? I can—“ but before he could finish, he was pulled forcibly by the elbow to the living room, much to Italy’s mortification._ _

__“ _Nonsense!_ ” cried Spain, who continued dragging America away from the kitchen until they both reached the Italie’s modest red couch. “You are guest in our home, please, have a seat! Would you like a coffee while we wait? Everything should be ready any minute now—“_ _

__“Bastard, you don’t even _live here!_ " Romano seethed as he walked past the two sitting nations. Spain chose to ignore him, to America’s internal delight. Though he could probably be useful to Romano with the heavy lifting, he much preferred sitting around, with the anticipation of coffee. _ _

__“Thanks for having me, by the way. This is a great place!” America said, grinning. Spain bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, ignoring Romano’s frenzied screech of _HE DOESN’T LIVE HERE YOU DUMB FUCK._ _ _

__“Of course! I heard, by the way, that you’re staying in a hotel, which is nonsense. You’ll stay here, we have plenty of room!” Spain’s excitement was contagious (if not a bit manic). And loathe as he was to admit it, America was pretty tempted by the offer. He knew all three of the nations could make a mean breakfast, and he was pretty tired and jetlagged, and he didn’t particularly want to deal with Italians in taxis and hotels…_ _

__“Ah, wow, thanks! That’s really cool of you guys,” America accepted, taking his cue from Spain and ignoring Romano’s objections from the kitchen._ _

__As soon as that was settled, Spain helped America move all his luggage to the spacious guest room (thankfully, not the one with all the German crap in it). He then showed America how to use Romano’s (very expensive) espresso machine, which America nearly broke (so he was heavy handed—it was a sign of strength!) Sipping the warm coffee, America left the Italians to their cooking and sat with Spain in the living room, pleasantly gossiping about international affairs. It occurred to America that he really should attempt to make more friends. Canada hardly counted, being his brother and all, and America would never be able to treat England like a proper friend, no matter how hard he tried (though he very deliberately avoided analyzing why this was). Spain and Italy (and Romano, he supposed, though the grumpy nation was not exactly his idea of pleasant) could be very entertaining company._ _

__In no time at all, America heard a measured knock at the door. Spain immediately went quiet, grin slipping from his face, and Italy’s call of “He is HERE, ROMANO è QUI—“ was quickly smothered by something that sounded suspiciously like a gag._ _

__“Excuse me, I must let in our guest of honor.” Spain said, a tad mechanically, rising from the couch and making his way to the door. America, for lack of better things to do, stood up as well, feeling uncomfortable in the suddenly tense environment._ _

__“Ah, Alemania, always so nice to see you!” Spain exclaimed, cheerfully, all traces of displeasure gone from his face, looking for all the world like he genuinely welcomed Germany into his boyfriend’s home. He swung the door wide open and embraced the blonde tightly. America was a bit disappointed. He always liked a good show-down._ _

__“Likewise,” Germany replied, with a small smile. That definitely looked forced. There was the drama America was looking for!_ _

__“Hey Germany!” he said, grinning, walking to the two older nations. “Long time no see, man, how’re you?”_ _

__Germany grasped America’s outstretched hand, giving his usual firm handshake, perhaps with a touch more force than usual. His tentative smile dropped completely. “As well as expected, America. Good to see you.”_ _

__Just then, Romano and Italy appeared from the kitchen, both looking sufficiently haggard. Italy and Germany made eye-contact for a total of three seconds. Then, with no warning or fanfare, Italy began to cry._ _

__And so began one of the most awkward nights America had ever experienced._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, such drama. Not gonna lie, Scotland is a personal favorite of mine. Not that I can write him to save my life.
> 
> Thanks for the feedback and such, I really appreciate it. Critique is welcome, I really am trying to grow as a writer...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy remembers himself, America shows heart, and Germany shows some humanity (and it isn't pretty).

“…So, you have been in Rome a while, then?” Germany casually asked America as the superpower inhaled his third burger of the night. Both men tried to pointedly ignore the sobbing of their host nation the next room over. 

“Oh, yeah,” America managed to mumble, “I’ve been here three days at least.” Germany nodded a bit stiffly.

“I…hope you are enjoying yourself.” Germany said, wincing when a particularly loud curse was shouted in rapid Italian from the next room over. “Rome is quite beautiful this time of year.” He tried not to shudder in disgust at America’s grotesque display of feeding himself. The burger the younger man manhandled was falling apart in his hands, which seemed to suit America just fine, because he used the entirety of his palm span to shove the leaking burger further down his throat. Germany felt his face fall into distaste, and in this case, he felt his assessment was fair.

America, meanwhile, found it difficult not to grin outright at Germany’s discomfort. True, perhaps the ketchup he was currently smearing all over his lower face was a bit excessive, but Germany could do with a bit of unwinding—especially after his shoddy welcome into Italy’s home.

After the light-haired Italian had burst into tears at the sight of his ex, both Spain and Germany had quickly rushed over to comfort the weeping nation. Germany, probably acting out of instinct, was clearly not thinking straight, because he quickly went to embrace his former beau, an action Romano quickly objected to by punching Germany in the neck. As the German fell like a glorious fortress, Spain attempted to placate the furious Romano and sniffling Italy simultaneously, a task doomed to fail. In the end, Italy ended up crying harder than before, Romano got a few more hits in, and America finally got off his ass in order to restrain Germany’s attempt at retaliation. 

Overall, Germany was sporting a black eye, Italy and Romano were hiding out in the living room, Spain was desperately attempting to coax them out, and America had eaten three burgers. It was a very good night. 

“Perhaps I should…attempt to apologize.” Germany finally said, breaking the oppressive silence between the two. America shrugged.

“Why? You weren’t the one throwing punches.”

“Ah, ja, but…” Germany frowned, watching America’s renewed conquest of a fourth cheeseburger, “I understand now that my arrival was a bit...crass. I did not give Italy any warning; he has not had a chance to compose himself.”

America, who loved drama more than most of his states, reached for his beer nonchalantly. “Ah, don’t beat yourself up, dude. You gotta put everyone up to the same standards. If you’re willing to barge in on other nations unexpectantly in order to yell at them about stupid shit they’ve done, then you should be able to do the same with Italy, yeah?” 

Germany nodded slowly at America’s reasoning, thinking of the numerous angry trips he’d made all over Europe on a moment’s notice.

“…Though you should maybe take it a bit easier with Italy,” America suddenly added, seemingly changing his mind. Germany raised an eyebrow in surprise, but America didn’t notice, as he was staring at the direction Romano started yelling from. “He doesn’t seem to be in the best place.” Looking back at Germany, America asked, “Why’re you here again, dude?”

And Germany couldn’t quite remember the answer.

____________

 

“Leave us alone, ugly, can’t you see he’s upset?!” Romano yelled at Spain, lovingly. Spain rolled his eyes. He adored the younger man, of course, but their relationship wasn’t always a walk in the park.

“I see that perfectly fine, Romano. I’m just trying to—“

“You’re trying to sell him out to the potato bastard, or the hamburger bastard! My brother is not a piece of fucking meat—“

“I am _not_ trying to sell him out, I am trying to protect him from your credit card fraud—“

“—it doesn’t even matter to you that he’s heartbroken, bastard—“

“It doesn’t matter to _me_?! Who was suggesting we leave him on France’s doorstep last week!?”

“It _doesn’t_ matter to you fucker, you were in there chatting with that potato like you were best fucking friends—“

“It’s called manners, Romano, I’m so sorry you forgot how to use them!!”

“NOT LIKE YOU EVER TAUGHT ME YOU STUPID PERVERT—“ 

Italy sniffled a bit and attempted to block his brother’s shouting out. Romano and Spain’s relationship had been strained for the past month, which upset Italy tremendously, because he was aware it was mostly his fault. The two had finally managed to work out some sort of arrangement and order and peace, then Italy came crashing in like a hurricane, stressing Spain out and unbalancing Romano. France had said that if the two were not able to handle a house guest for a couple of months, then they were not meant to last at all. But Italy knew better. Romano was never happier than with Spain on his arm. It was just unfortunate that his brother was prone to overreacting and jealous behavior, behavioral flaws that Italy was especially adept at bringing out. 

He wiped the last few tears off his face. This couldn’t keep happening. He needed to face Germany, without Romano and Spain shielding him from distress. Besides, America was in there, and for some reason, his presence seemed comforting. Italy hoped some of the superpower’s strength would rub off on himself.

“Come on, fratello, let’s go b-back in,” Italy managed to say, taking his brother by the elbow and interrupting a particularly nasty diatribe. Spain looked relieved, while Romano narrowed his gaze.

“Go where, in the kitchen? So you can cry again like a bitch? No Veneziano, we’re going to stay here until—“

“Lovino.” Italy said with a tone of finality, dragging his twin out of the living room with ease. “I’ll be fine.”

At their reentrance, both Germany and America looked up, Germany with a worried look, and America with a secretive smile. When Italy made eye contact, America winked, and suddenly, Italy felt a small modem of confidence seep in. 

“Ve…sorry about that, I thought I burned the meat…”

America roared with laughter, and Spain hesitantly joined in. Even Romano cracked a small smirk. 

“You’re lucky I kept an eye on it, idiot.” Romano commented, and Spain, still giggling, pushed Romano to his seat. Germany didn’t move, eyes glued to Italy, who was smiling widely at America. Something churned uncomfortably in his gut.

____________

 

“So that is why I had to come personally,” Germany finished, “I’m worried something may be wrong with my finances. Because most of the transactions occurred in Rome, I thought you might know something about it. Especially with America being here, I think we should all take extra precautions.” 

America struggled not to snort into his beer. Germany had just finished recounting his very flimsy excuse for why he made the split second decision to fly to Rome. It wasn’t completely uncharacteristic of the German, to be perfectly fair—England had told him that on the eve of the European elections, Germany had shown up at Downing Street with no warning, with the sole purpose of berating England and Scotland to remain unified for the sake of EU stability. England had been pissed, and America had laughed at Scotland’s beet red face for a solid twenty minutes. 

And yet, Italy had always been exempt from this type of harassment, until now. How quaint.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you dropped your card somewhere and some jackass stole it, potato bastard?” Romano asked as politely as he could manage, angrily stabbing at an onion on his plate. 

Germany frowned. “I have never lost anything so important—“

“Ve…you lost the necklace I made you six years ago,” Italy chimed in, “and you said everything I gave you was priceless to you.” The Italian continued biting into his burger, while Germany seemed frozen in place, the beer in his hands slipping slowly out of his grasp. Spain thankfully took it out of Germany’s grasp before he could drop it. Nobody said a word, and America struggled three times as hard not to bust out laughing.

“…It seems I did not think this through.” Germany finally said. “That…is very much a possibility, Romano. Danke.”

America outright grinned, and looked at Italy mischievously. Italy glanced back and winked, before returning to sipping on his wine. 

Germany left after half an hour of awkward pleasantries, and finally America felt safe to laugh at his expense. Romano joined in wholeheartedly, embracing his brother all the while. Spain watched the merriment in amusement. 

“You showed that potato, fratello, you SHOWED HIM!” Romano exclaimed, now more than a little tipsy. “And no one had to know I stole his shit!!” Spain rolled his eyes at his lover’s antics, but he was overjoyed at the Italians’ laughter. Italy was giggling in a carefree manner, something that he hadn’t been able to do in months. America, finally calming down, left the Italies’ side and waltzed over to Spain, plopping on the seat beside him.

“Ah, shit, dude, I haven’t this much fun since I convinced China to give me more money,” America admitted, still grinning broadly. 

Spain laughed, “Well, I’m glad we could provide that much entertainment!”

“Yeah, well…I’m glad it turned out like this,” America said, turning to face Italy. Spain watched as his expression turned wistful. “Italy’s a good dude. He shouldn’t let this shit with Germany bring him down. He deserves happiness, more than most of us.”

As the Italies twirled around, and America watched on, Spain struggled to keep his own expression neutral. At first, he had thought America would be a good distraction for Italy. Now, he knew America would be amazing for Italy overall. He couldn’t believe he was blind to it before. 

“I think you’re right, amigo.” Spain finally said, in a strange tone. America didn’t think anything of it.

____________

 

Germany stormed out of Italy’s place, quickly calling the Italian taxi service. Though he was meant to stay in Rome overnight, he found he was unable to stick around a moment longer. Italy’s usually cheery apartment building seemed to be mocking him now, as did the streets of Rome. He quickly made his way to the nearest intersection, where he had hastily (and in broken Italian) agreed to meet his taxi driver. When the driver arrived five minutes later, Germany had cancelled his hotel reservation for the night, and was now attempting to book an emergency flight out of Rome. If nothing would leave at this time, then he would insist on a private jet, a luxury he very rarely indulged in (but damn, did he deserve it). Getting into the cab was a struggle (as the driver had filled his trunk with strange paraphernalia, and Germany had been forced to load his suitcase in the back seat with no help from the lazy driver). Eventually, he was settled, and he angrily barked instructions at the driver, before returning his attention to his phone, where he attempted to find a getaway. 

As it turned out, flights to Berlin were available, but Germany suddenly felt he could not yet go home. He did not want to see Prussia, and he certainly didn’t want to talk to him about what had just happened. 

What _had_ happened? It hadn’t been a very productive dinner. Germany had allowed himself to be waylaid, and had not managed to get a confession out of Romano. And now, it seemed unlikely he ever would. Even more distressing, loathe as Germany was to admit it, was Italy’s behavior throughout the night. The tears at his arrival were exactly what the German expected. But the Italian’s ability to put himself together, and then function pleasantly for the rest of the night, was a surprise. Germany was not blind to the pain he had been causing Italy the past few months, and he certainly did not wish it upon his ex—but business was business, and Italy never had proper control over his emotions. 

So by all means, Italy’s conduct tonight should have been a positive sign. But it didn’t feel positive. Especially when Italy seemed to have taken to smiling and winking at _America_ , of all people. 

Germany didn’t like America much. He was arrogant and vain and incredibly stupid, both as a nation and a person. In fact, as annoying as America was on the international stage, it was nothing compared to his actual personality, as far as Germany was concerned. America was someone who could be negotiated with. Alfred Jones was just insufferable. 

_I didn’t think Italy to be a man attracted to power, ___Germany thought gruffly, _but I haven’t been right about much lately._

Well, misery loved company, and Germany was feeling uncharacteristically bitter. He booked a flight to London, deciding to talk with the one person who’d be as annoyed at America and Italy’s new friendship as he was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I really don't know why this took so long. There's a scene I'm really excited to get to, but it needs a lot of build up. I'M SORRY I'M TERRIBLE.
> 
> If you thought everyone was ganging up on Germany in this bit, then, welp. You're not wrong.
> 
> Also, I just wanna make something clear. This IS USUK. Like, 100%, no matter what. I know people don't like surprises when it comes to pairings, and I'm here to ease your unease.
> 
> Thanks for your feedback, I love it! Comments also guilt me into writing faster...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England isn't particularly nice, and America isn't particularly truthful.

“You realize it’s two in the fucking morning, yeah?” Scotland bitched, throwing Germany a rather dirty look. “One would think ye’d have a modicum of manners in ye, Christ.”

Germany rolled his eyes, and ignored England’s oldest brother. Or, at least, he tried. It really didn’t help that all of England’s siblings were present, and looking particularly grumpy (which, Germany thought, was rather fair, considering he had woken them all up when he began loudly knocking at England’s door in the dead of night).

He hadn’t really expected _all_ of England’s brothers to be staying with him, though he really should have guessed that at least one would. Despite how much they complained about each other, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland (affectionately dubbed ‘North’ by nearly everyone in Western Europe), and England spent more time together than they did apart these days (yes, even Ireland, who _still_ felt the need to remind everyone in his vicinity that he was no longer a part of the United Kingdom, thank you very much). 

“Give me a minute, I need to put proper trousers on,” England said, finally realizing that Germany hadn’t flown to London at two am and knocked on his door on a whim.

As England trudged to his bedroom, the remainder of the Kirkland brothers grunted or nodded in Germany’s direction, then turned to discuss something amongst themselves. Germany was content to be left out of their conversation.

He hadn’t seen any of them, with the exception of England and Ireland, in at least four months. They didn’t look any different, of course, since the last time they met. They were all still tall, broad shouldered, messy haired, freckled, and of course, thick browed. It never failed to amuse Germany that they were all much taller than England, even Northern Ireland, who was younger than all of them by at least one thousand years. In fact, poor England always seemed to stick out when it came to his brothers, being shorter, leaner, and fair haired. 

Still, it seemed to Germany that the brothers were getting along better than they ever had before. Despite England’s constant bitching, Germany had noticed that his siblings treated him more like a little brother, and less like a punching bag. As of late, they’d been embracing him more (albeit drunkenly and aggressively), they’d picked harmless fights with him (meaning that in the aftermath no one was bleeding), and they seemed to paw at their brother with genuine affection. England, of course, had been perplexed at his brothers’ changing attitude in the past decade, but Germany could tell he was secretly pleased. 

Finally, England emerged from his bedroom, fully clothed. “D’you want to go to a bar or something? I’m sure something in Soho is still open…” he asked, wrestling a raincoat on.

Germany opened his mouth to reply, but Scotland cut him off.

“Ye don’t want to talk in here, Wart?”

England scowled at the nickname, and Wales, ever the broker of peace, spoke up.

“It’s alright, Lloegr, we’ll go back to our rooms and sleep—“

“I don’t want to sleep—can I come to Soho with you, England?” Northern Ireland asked, ever the overexcited teenager.

“You bloody well cannot, North.” England ground out, marching towards Germany in a huff. Northern Ireland frowned.

“You’re a fucking killjoy.”

“And fucking proud of it,” England huffed, grabbing Germany’s elbow. “I’ll see you lot in a few hours.”

“Don’t count on it!” Ireland said, but he launched out of his seat to embrace England from behind, arms encircling the younger man’s waist, which caused England to groan in irritation. The remaining brothers, lighting up at the prospect of annoying England, leapt on him as well, pinching his cheeks and dramatically claiming they’d miss him, while England roared in protest, kicking at them in an attempt to get away. Germany watched the display with amusement, but also, embarrassingly, with some modicum of…envy.

England could complain all he wanted, but he was spoiled rotten when it came to attention. His brothers, while perhaps not the friendliest of siblings, could always be counted on to be around and drive their stuffier sibling up the wall (and out of a lonely state). America, who supposedly did not make personal calls (until recently, it seemed, though Germany made a point to shoo those thoughts _away_ ), would constantly text and Skype and harass his former colonizer (as England bemoaned every time he and Germany went out for coffee), sometimes with Canada in tow. The Commonwealth of Nations, for all their complaints towards England and his ilk, visited him every few months. Not to mention, in Europe, there seemed to be some unspoken code about breaking and entering being okay, as long as the person’s house you were breaking into was part of the EU as well—and England’s modest flat was a popular destination for those looking to slag off and get drunk for a weekend. 

England was not the exception to this constant attention, however. Within Europe, there were many groups of friends of course, from his brother’s tight-knit friendship with France and Spain to the predictable bond between the Nordic nations. And Germany…didn’t really fit in with anybody.

Of course, it wasn’t like he didn’t have friends, per se. He and Austria met on a regular basis, as did he and France, and he spent a lot more time with his brother nowadays than in decades past. And yet, he couldn’t truly call any of them friends for friend’s sake. He never really called on them without purpose. Even now, with England, he was here to discuss something he knew would bother the Briton as well. He wasn’t here because he thought England could comfort him, and he certainly wasn’t here because England would _want_ to comfort him. And the thought made him so achingly _sad_ —it took all he had not to let tears fall here, in the middle of England’s living room, while the five brothers half-hugged-half-punched each other. 

“CHRIST, I said I’ll be back, now fuck OFF!” England said, violently flinging off Wales’ tight grip. “Let’s go, you ruddy brick house, before they trap us here indefinitely.” he said, addressing Germany, and stomping past him.

Germany attempted to shrug nonchalantly, and followed England out the front door. Prussia was right—he was becoming a total pussy. 

Both England and Germany ignored the uproarious laughter that followed them down the hall. 

“So…what’s wrong?” England asked, somewhat awkwardly, once the two were out on the streets of London. “Meeting in Italy went tits up, did it?”

“Actually, it did.” Germany replied, falling in step with England. Hopefully, the tube was still running, because Germany did not fancy walking all the way to Soho. 

England hummed, but he did not verbally reply. 

“It went ‘tits up’ because America was there.” Germany finally said, a little annoyed that his statements were met with nonchalance.

“Yes, he told he’d be in Rome for a week or so.” England said, looking resolutely forward. 

“Well, I’m glad someone is informed.”

England frowned, though Germany could hardly make it out in the darkness. “It’s hardly our business what he does in his free time.” 

Germany was getting frustrated, but like every occasion in which he felt he was losing control, he immediately bottled up, pushed his hands into his pockets, and pursed his mouth shut. England, sensing that he had forced the German on the defensive, sighed softly. 

“I’m sorry.” he said, curtly, though genuinely. Germany relaxed a tad, to England’s relief. “What did he do?”

Germany echoed England’s sigh. “…He was himself. Obnoxious. Loud. Acted completely inappropriately within the context of our get together,” he tried not to get annoyed at England’s smile, “not to mention, Italy acted completely enamored with him.” 

“Oho, I see the problem now!” England exclaimed, grinning roguishly. “I have to say, jealousy looks a lot more regal on me than it does you, mate.”

Germany rolled his eyes. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if America didn’t look so interested in him.” That made England’s grin wane a bit. Good. “Italy gets these harmless crushes from time to time, mostly on nations far more powerful than him. He was a bit enamored with you, even, during the Napoleonic Wars.” England looked slightly disgusted at the thought, which pleased Germany more than it should have. “Anyway, that’s all they are—harmless. But if America returns his—“

“Yes, yes, I understand what you’re getting at.” England interrupted, now looking more disgruntled than ever. “I suppose you’re here to infect me with your misery.”

It wasn’t a question, and Germany didn’t try to deny it. It was, after all, his main motivation for coming to London. 

“Then allow me to congratulate you—you’ve done what you came for. Now let me to return the favor.” And suddenly, England rounded about, facing Germany head on, stopping the taller blonde in his tracks. “I’ve come to terms with the idea of America eventually taking his head out of the clouds long enough to fall in love with someone. If it’s Italy, I’ll support them one hundred percent. I’ve promised myself to be his friend, because that’s what he needs above all else.” Germany felt the color drain from his face. “I’ll cheer them on. Hell, I’ll fight for them, despite my personal feelings on the matter, because my feelings _don’t_ matter, in the face of his happiness. I’ve learned from my mistakes. He isn’t mine to manipulate, or mine to keep.”

“And as for Italy,” England continued, eyebrows furrowed severely, which would have amusing at any other moment in time but this one, “you have no right to barge into house because you feel some sort of inexplicable _jealousy_. You haven’t spoken to him proper in half a year, and suddenly you invite yourself over, when he has guests? You’ve no respect for him, and you certainly don’t love him, if the only thing that could prompt you to visit him was some pissing contest with America. Clearly, he doesn’t mean much to you anymore, and considering how burdensome he’s become over the last few years, I don’t blame you. But here’s my suggestion to you, Germany—leave him alone. You’ve being doing a bang up job of that for the past few months after all, haven’t you?”

The question hung in the air between them. Germany was staring down at England, wide-eyed, with his heart beating heavily in his chest. England looked calm, on the other hand, and completely collected.

“…Ja, of course…” Germany started, but England shook his head.

“I don’t really have any interest in talking about this further. Was there anything else?” When Germany failed to reply, England maneuvered his phone out of his overcoat, and turned it on. “In that case, I’ll have my secretary book you a room for the night. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be out this late. My apologies, of course, but as you saw, I don’t have any room in my flat. I’ll escort you to the airport tomorrow—“

“Don’t bother.” Germany said, finally finding his voice.

England nodded curtly, texting his secretary hurriedly. “In that case, I’ll see you in a few weeks. Prussia and I are meeting in Berlin, if you want to join. A car should be here to take you to your hotel in a few, there’s no need to tip.” He said all of this without looking up from his phone. “Was there anything else?” 

“No.” Germany said, not looking at England anymore.

“Cheers, then.” The Briton said, moving past Germany and down the road they came. Germany didn’t turn around to look at his. England’s words had been like a freight train—and Germany felt something akin to a breakdown rear its ugly head.

He hadn’t admitted how hard his separation from Italy had been to anyone, and now it seemed he had no outlet for his feelings. He didn’t wait for the car—he hailed a cab and phoned his own PA, instructing him to send a jet for Germany within the hour. Like hell would he stay in London now.

England, meanwhile, made it halfway home before beginning to sob. By the time he was inside, he was ugly crying. His siblings, for some ungodly reason, had decided to stay up, and stared at his weeping face, wide-eyed. When he went to his bedroom, however, they all followed, letting him put his head on their shoulders and his legs on their laps, and let him cry about the boy who could never possibly love him back. 

 ------------

To be honest, America was bored.

He didn’t mean to be. He understood that Italy’s way of living was, in fact, the finer way of life. He, Spain, and Romano didn’t watch TV—instead, they dragged America around Rome, showed him tourist attractions, took him to fancy restaurants (in which Spain and Romano kept abandoning him to be alone with Italy, for some reason), and on occasion, to popular clubs which attracted only the most fashionable and beautiful people of Europe. 

It was all well and good, but America preferred watching Mad Men in his underwear and playing Halo until someone yelled at him. Most likely his boss. 

Still, he tried to be as polite as possible. He wasn’t in America, Canada or the United Kingdom—he couldn’t afford to behave like he normally did. His country was counting on him. Not to mention, it turned out the Ambassador to Italy had been on to something—when Italy was in a good mood, he was a lot more likely to be productive at work. The trade deal Washington had been worried about seemed close at hand now, and Alfred had to pat himself on the back for his role in the negotiations. He'd laughed at everything he thought was meant to be funny, he smiled charmingly when he was addressed, and he made the Italies feel like he was listening to them when they went off on a pretentious rant about how much better Rome was as a cultural capital than other cities. What more could his bosses want?

He had a couple of days left in Italy before he was due home, though he was thinking of changing his flight itinerary, so he could stop by London for a few days. He’d talked to Scotland and Wales recently, but hadn’t heard much from England. His brothers has said that he was feeling under the weather, however, which only meant that America needed to buy a good old fashioned cheeseburger to fix England right up. He smiled at the mental image. 

In any case, there were only a few more days of tiptoeing around Italy’s feelings and dealing with Romano and Spain’s shouting matches at night (and then pretending he hadn’t heard them the next morning). Then, he could go right back to being his usual 100% heroic self and not completely bored out of his _mind_.

\------------ 

_America,_ Italy thought, _is completely misrepresented and misunderstood_.

In the past few days, Italy had realized that his earlier perceptions of America had been completely wrong, and the American was an angel from above, sent to lift Italy’s spirits and teach him how to be happy again. He had been nothing short of a gentleman during his stay thus far in Rome, showing appropriate interest in Rome’s many attractions. He was even okay with Spain and Romano’s scary shouting! In fact, as impossible as it seemed, even Romano begrudgingly admitted that America’s manners were impeccable. Not to mention, he even seemed to find Italy humorous, which was absolutely flattering (even though a month ago they had all thought America to have a poor sense of humor). 

Once again, Italy felt drawn to America’s power and appeal, but this time he didn’t fight it. He leaned into America’s arms and beamed at the taller man across restaurant tables. He felt enamored in a way he hadn’t been for a long time.

And to think, he’d thought America a brute, and a scary one! He had been so silly, to form opinions of the young superpower before he could get to know him. He said as such one night to France, when they were having their weekly phone call to catch up.

“Ve, and then he was nice enough to buy me gelato! The expensive kind, not the crappy kind Spain always seems to find.” Italy grinned at Spain, letting him know he was joking. Spain shook his head, and went back to preparing the salad for the night’s dinner. Romano was lounging by his boyfriend, helpfully reading a magazine, while America showered upstairs. 

“ _Hm, that is unusually kind of him._ ” France replied, with a somewhat bemused tone.

“It’s not unusual, nii-chan!” Italy exclaimed, using the term of endearment he learned from Japan. He quite liked his friend’s language, and he knew France liked being called ‘big brother’, if nothing else. “He’s been so nice the whole time he’s been here, even Romano thinks so!”

France laughed, albeit somewhat statically. _“Well, I see at least some of England’s manners have rubbed off on the boy after all.”_

Italy frowned at the mention of England, a bit troubled. Though he’d never noticed it himself, Romano had claimed that anyone with two eyes in their skull could see that the Englishman had it bad for America as of late. Italy hoped it wasn’t true, because he was _really_ starting to like America, and he didn’t want to hurt England, even if England was mean and grouchy most of the time. Still, Romano also said that it didn’t seem like America liked England too much in return, so, at least on that front, Italy felt somewhat safe.

“Heh…a-anyway France-nii, I really like having him here! And I think he really likes being here, and after our meeting with Germany, we’ve really seemed to…click…” Italy had told France about his fall-out with Germany two days ago, and France had been very comforting.

Now, however, France was silent for a while. _“Ah. So…this is why you are calling me, mon cher? You like America?”_

Italy nodded earnestly, forgetting for a moment France could not see him. “I really do! I know you and Germany complained about him a lot—“ and wow, did it feel good to be able to say Germany’s name without stuttering—“but I think he’s changed. He isn’t self-interested at all; he only came to visit me and Romano because he wanted to!” Spain looked back at Italy fondly. He was so happy his cute little Italian had a crush!

France, meanwhile, was not as overjoyed, though he didn’t let it show too much. _”I…see,”_ he said, haltingly, hoping Italy didn’t notice, _“Perhaps you are right, mon ami. I certainly hope you are.”_

They talked for another forty minutes before France hung up, pleading exhaustion. Italy frowned, a bit worried that France was so tired so early in the night, but he shrugged it off—if there was one thing Europe could count on, it was that France would voice his displeasure if he felt it. America came out of the shower, summoned by the smell of food, and the four of them had a lovely night in.

Perhaps everything would have remained idyllic and unsaid for a couple of years more, if France hadn’t called for an emergency European Union meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I don't know what's up with me and being mean to Germany, I promise I like him...
> 
> I'm sorry also by my excessive mentions of England and his brothers, but England is my favorite character, I can't help it (I'm not English, so hopefully, it isn't narcissistic).
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading! Feedback is love.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone packs up, and America and England have a somewhat upsetting texting session.

“Since when does France have this sort of authority? _I_ certainly fucking didn’t give it to him!” Romano bitched, throwing another sweater in his suitcase. “Who does he think he is, making us drop everything to go to stupid Paris, we have important shit to do!”

“Oh?” Spain replied, not looking up from his own packing, “And what exactly is this important shit we have to do?” Only years of experience and intuition allowed Spain to duck just in time, Romano’s shoe missing him by centimeters. 

“I know fucking well _you_ don’t have shit to do, bastard.” 

“I think it’ll be fun!” Italy interrupted, before his brother turned to full blown ranting. “It’s been a while since we’ve had an EU meeting with everyone—“

“Good fucking riddance to that,” Romano muttered. 

“Hey, I can come, right?” America’s voice suddenly cut in, and Romano looked up to find the superpower leaning by the doorway. Huh, he'd forgotten America was with them. How perfectly awkward. “My flight’s not until Tuesday and I’d rather not change it. I promise I won’t spy on your official stuff!” 

Romano squinted at America suspiciously, but Spain and Italy were all smiles. “Of course, America!” They both exclaimed, simultaneously, their enthusiasm intimidating the blonder nation a bit, which Romano found amusing. It took centuries of practice to be able to handle both Italy and Spain in large doses, and Romano figured he was just about the only nation who could do it. America was clearly in over his head, if he was pursuing Romano's younger brother (which honestly, the more Romano thought about it, the more pleasant the thought was).

“…Uh, great. I’ll…go pack, I guess,” America said, disconcerted, and quickly fled Romano’s bedroom. 

“Isn’t that so nice of him, fratello? He wants to keep us company!” Italy grinned brightly, attempting to stuff a Gucci suit into his own suitcase. 

“He just doesn’t want to say goodbye to you, Feli,” Spain said, grinning and reaching over to pinch Italy’s cheeks (though Romano’s death glare stopped him cold). 

Italy beamed at Spain, attempting to ignore the fluttering in his heart. Against all odds, Spain seemed to be right. America really had no reason to join them in their meeting, especially since he wouldn’t be allowed to participate or even attend the formal portion of their get-together (not that he wouldn’t bribe England later to find out everything that happened anyway, but the formality stood). Yet, there he was, wanting to tag along, and for what? Italy smiled at the possibilities. 

Additionally, for the first time in months, Italy didn’t actively dread an EU get together. When he saw Germany, he would greet him cheerfully, like he was any other friend. He’d shake his hand, make small-talk, then walk on, for once not looking back and feeling like his entire world was shattering into a thousand tiny jagged pieces. 

\------------

_“What gives, frog?!"_

France winced at the shrill sound emitting from his iPhone speaker. He really should start checking his screen before answering calls. He'd been having an absolutely terrible week, both in a personal and professional sense, and the last thing he needed was England's charming ability to make everything exponentially worse. 

“Lovely to hear from you, cher,” he finally replied, putting the phone on speaker and placing it far from his sensitive ears. His migraine could not handle anymore irate screaming today.

_“Don’t fucking cher me, idiot. What gives, why are you making us go to Paris on such short notice? And on the weekend of the Cooper Hill Cheese Rolling? Did you plan this on purpose bast—“_

“Yes, Angleterre. I make all of my business decisions based on what bizarre English tradition I can potentially ruin for you and your barbaric family.” France interrupted, rolling his eyes and making his way into the kitchen. England’s voice would carry, it always did. 

A pause. _”Well…don’t you?"_ England asked, somewhat vulnerably. France shook his head, smiling slightly. He didn’t deny it.

“Trust me, what we need to talk about is nothing short of an emergency.”

\-------------

_**Me:** u have some sort of arrangement in paris, rite? Can I stay with u? I dont wanna pay for a hotel lol_ [1:35am]

 _ **Artie Kirkland:** How very charming of you, America._ [1:46am]

 _ **Me:** hahaha u know im stingy!! :D_ [1:47am]

 _ **Artie Kirkland:** Hm._ [1:47am]

 _ **Me:** damn dont text back if thats all ull say lol. but I can stay with u?_ [1:50am]

 _ **Artie Kirkland:** I’m staying with Francis._ [1:55am]

 _ **Me:** lol ok ur right I should stop asking 2 stay wit u last minute, sorry, but dont say shit like that dude_ [1:56am]

 _ **Artie Kirkland:** Hahaha, I suppose you know me too well after all!_ [1:57am]

 _ **Me:** England who dafuq do u think ur talking to, I was there wjen u literally threw up on france for suggesting u 2 share a room_ [2:00am]

 _ **Artie Kirkland:** Good lord, I forgot you were there for that. Is it true he cried, I was too pissed to notice_ [2:01am]

 _ **Me:** oh baby it was classic I nearly convinced him to shave his nasty hair off. n/eway don’t lie to me and lemme stay wit u, ill pay half_ [2:06am]

 _ **Artie Kirkland:** How very generous of you, darling._ [2:08am]

 _ **Me:** hehe I imagined u saying that in my mind, so I know ur being a big sarcastic meanie_ [2:10am]

 _ **Artie Kirkland:** I’m growing quite fond of this new ability of yours to understand what I mean. _ [2:11am]

 _ **Me:** I always know what u mean. ___[2:14am]

_**Artie Kirkland:** Uh huh, right. Anyway, you can’t stay with me._ [2:22am] 

_**Me:** wtf why r u being such a dick England_ [2:24am] 

_**Artie Kirkland:** I already promised Denmark I’d keep him company, Norway isn’t coming._ [2:25am] 

_**Me:** wtf cant I just stay with both of you_ [2:28am] 

_**Artie Kirkland:** No room. Besides, I bet Italy would love to room with you ;-)_ [2:33am] 

_**Me:** did u just use an emoticon_ [2:33am] 

_**Artie Kirkland:** …bloody hell, I’ve been texting you too much._ [2:37am] 

_**Me:** I dont wanna stay wit Italy im sick of him, theres only so long I can be nice for_ [2:38am] 

_**Artie Kirkland:** Dear god, you’re being nice?!?_ [2:40am] 

_**Me:** stfu u asshole. I dont know whats up wit u lately, r u avoiding me?_ [2:45am] 

_**Artie Kirkland:** I’m not avoiding you America, I’m sorry I’ve given you that impression. I’m your friend, you know you can count on me, yeah?_ [2:49am] 

_**Me:** …yeah, thanks friend. Ill stay with Italy, ill see u there maybe. _ [2:55am] 

_**Artie Kirkland:** Come on, don’t be aggressive baby._ [2:57am] 

_**Arthur Jerkland:** *A PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE BABY, bloody phone_ [2:57am] 

_**Arthur Kirkland:** It was a typo America, I didn’t mean to call you baby._ [3:00am] 

_**Arthur Kirkland:** America?_ [3:03am] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the text convo stuff, but I actually think its an interesting insight into relationships, analyzing the way two people text each other. Also I think about this shit WAY too much.
> 
> This chapter was transitional, and pretty difficult to write for some reason, hence why its short and crappy. I'll try harder, I promise D:


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America is bored, America also fights, and Prussia begins to shatter the illusion.

"Welcome, members and constituents of the European Union. I am so very thankful you could all make it today. I apologize for the short notice, of course, and am delighted to see you all, refreshed, and open minded, and as sexy as ever! Why, this reminds me of another meeting we all had, several months ago, I'm sure most of you remember it--"

"Christ, does he ever _shut up_?" America muttered, in what he thought was a reasonably quiet voice.

It apparently wasn't, because England, who sat to his right, immediately started rolling his eyes. "You should be thankful to him, America, you wouldn't be able to sit in on a private session otherwise," he whispered with some derision.

America smirked. "Heh, defending him now, are you? Not sure what inspired this change of heart, England." Predictably, the Englishman began to sputter and glare, like he did every time someone accused him of exhibiting polite and admirable behavior. It still delighted America, that England insisted on being so unpleasant. 

Besides, riling England up was one of the few amusements America still had during these meetings. Fighting had been banned (mostly thanks to Scotland), along with most portable electronic devices (which was largely Japan's fault), and "excessive shouting" (which was Germany's problem entirely). It was almost as if these bureaucrats wanted a productive work session.

"I wish he would get on with it," England said under his breath, leaning in towards America conspiratorially, and ignoring America's previous comment. "He called us here for a bloody emergency and now he can't get to the fucking point."

"He was probably just lonely in his super lame tower, and wanted some company. How else would he get it?" America replied, causing England to snort in amusement. 

"Heh, I bet you're--"

"America?" America scrunched his eyes in frustration. Then he gave England an apologetic look (mostly because England looked so affronted at being interrupted that he seemed to stop breathing properly), then turned to the nation addressing him. Italy. Who had interrupted the last three conversations America had attempted to have with England, an occurrence that was becoming old, fast.

The first time this happened had been when America, Italy, Romano, and Spain were making their way to the airport. America had called England with the intention of yelling at the smaller man about his unawesome policy of not letting America crash with him. However, the Briton quickly distracted him with gossip and and trash talking ("You simply _must_ hear what private conversation the MI6 spied on, you'll piss yourself laughing--"), which soon had America in a far more forgiving mood. However, the pair did not talk for even ten minutes before Italy unceremoniously yanked America's phone out of his hands and hung up, leaving America wide-eyed and incredulous. 

"Enough shop talk, America!" Italy had said, beaming."Ve, you work too much, lets get some lunch before we get on the plane!" Spain had cooed at how cute Italy was, and Romano had even smiled a bit at his brother. America, meanwhile, was glaring at the hand that held his expensive and customized phone.

America quickly got the impression that Italy did a lot of things than many people considered adorable and quirky, like taking phones away from people who he thought were being too "serious", and dragging grown men through food courts by their hands. Spain certainly seemed enamored by the goofball, and Romano, at the very least, looked bemused. 

America, however, was in no way amused. He knew he came off as easy going and silly most of the time, but this was not his constant or his default personality. In fact, since becoming one of the more powerful nations in the world, his patience was short, his temper was shorter, and his ability to put up with bubbly man-children had been eroded to the point of non-existence. While many humans thought America to be quite silly himself at glance, almost every nation knew that his easy-going personality could quickly turn quite nasty if everything did not go exactly as he wanted or planned. It was an ego problem that came with the territory of being a superpower. Many said they hated him for it, yet America never encountered too much resistance when he made nice with whoever he had supposedly offended. 

The point was, America did not appreciate Italy's interruption at the airport, but he became even more frustrated once the quartet actually landed in Paris. France had come to meet them, along with Prussia and, surprisingly, England. America had grinned at the sight of his friend, and quickly made his way to greet him. The two had barely said two words to each other before Italy quickly jumped up behind America, grabbing at his forearm.

"England!" he had exclaimed, uncharacteristically excited, even for him, "Ve, it was so nice of you to greet us! I'm so happy to see you at an EU meeting, I thought you said you'd stop coming!"

England had looked like he swallowed a lemon, and had excused himself before America could say another word. 

They had all reconvened at France's Parisian headquarters, where America once again sought out his messy-haired friend. But he was once again intercepted by an excitable Italy, this time dragging along a somewhat manic-looking Hungary. Hungary had then proceeded to question America about every aspect of his trip to Rome, which America had replied to with feigned excitement. For some reason, his answers only exacerbated her enthusiasm, and by the time he was able to detach himself from her, France had called the meeting to order. America had been on the verge of storming out and locking himself in a Parisian sports bar (surely they had sports bars in France?), but Prussia had stopped him and explained that despite being a fat, gun-toting American, he was allowed to sit in on the meeting. Normally, America would have passed, because sports bars and French girls always beat boring European bureaucratic crap-shoots, but he was curious about what emergency France was dealing with. He was also a little curious about whether England was still sick or whatever, but it wasn't like he cared, because caring was for socialists and cat-lovers. 

And that brought him to the present, where Italy was insistently poking at his bicep. "What were you guys talking about, America?" he asked, wide eyed and adorable looking. It made America feel a bit like punching someone. 

"Nothing important, Italy." he ground out, returning his attention to France, and resolving not to talk to England again until he had shaken Italy completely.

Thankfully, it seemed France had stopped stalling. "All in all, _mes amis_ , I am very thankful you could come so I could tell you--IspenttheemergencyEUbudget." 

A pause.

"Excuse me, Frankreich, but I must not have heard you correctly," Germany said, calmly and evenly. "I am so very sorry for my lack for comprehension. Could you, please, repeat what you said?" 

France cleared his throat, uncomfortably. "Em, well...as you know, we have all collectively put aside quite a bit of Euros in case of major financial meltdown. And, of course, we all decided to store this money in Paris, because, why wouldn't we? But...well, mon cher, there is no easy way to say this. My boss discovered the money last month and did not know that it was all of ours, not just mine, and therefore he spent it all on--"

But America never found out what President Hollande spent the money on. Because everybody in the room collectively lost their shit. 

\------------ 

"Damn, how much money was in this fucking secret stash of cash, England? Germany punched France so hard, I thought I felt the earth move." America asked, reaching over to steal one of England's "chips". 

"I wouldn't know. When they asked me to contribute, I told them they could lick my arse. I wasn't particularly sober at the time, but now I look pretty damn smart for saying no, hm?" England replied, grinning, and consequentially allowing ketchup to drip all over his expensive suit. America decided not to comment. 

"It must have been a lot though, right? Spain actually screamed. Like, _screamed_."

"Indeed he did." England said, proceeding to drop even more ketchup on himself. 

They were at a restaurant close to the conference building, where France was most likely still getting screamed at. Both England and America, who had not personally contributed to this emergency Euro fund, had quickly grown bored at the typical sight of Europeans hitting each other (though England's lack of participation had certainly been novelty) and decided to leave and gorge themselves instead. America was on his third beer (and second hamburger), while England was drinking straight gin. They were quickly heading toward the path of drunken shenanigans, which America would have normally attempted to prevent, but tonight was hellbent on encouraging. During his time in Rome, Italy, Romano, and Spain had encouraged him to drink high quality wine and, on occasion, expensive imported Belgium beer, and they taught him to savor every delicious drop, allowing for a higher understanding and appreciation of the taste. England, meanwhile, slammed back gin like water, and America found he had a new appreciation for England's tasteless way of living instead. 

"How was Rome, by the way?" England inquired, thankfully still sober enough to avoid slurring. America ordered more beer. 

"Meh," he replied once the waiter was on his way, "It was beautiful, you know. Cultural. Nice clubs, beautiful people."

"Oh," England said, suddenly looking uncomfortable, like he had at the airport, "I-I'm glad to hear that. Erm. You should go to Venice next, then. I'm sure Italy would love to show you around."

America squinted suspiciously. "Weren't you the one who said the only reason I should ever visit Italy is to "get a lesson on how to be as lazy and useless as possible"?"

"Yes, well. I wasn't feeling particularly warm towards Italy when I said that..."

"England, you said that two weeks ago."

"Yes, well, a lot can change in two weeks!" England said, suddenly affronted. "You've had a bloody good time with him, so go look at more of his country! Perhaps you'll learn something!"

"God, what is with you lately?!" America said, raising his voice to a shout. "You've made fun of Italy for the past century, and now you're banging on about how great he is? What gives??"

" _Me_ , banging on about him? According to Germany, you're the one who's been singing his praises! Which is bloody brilliant, I couldn't be happier you're getting along!"

America threw down his silverware, making a loud clattering noise. By now, many of the patrons were looking over at him and England curiously, but alcohol was clouding his judgement, and he felt himself getting irrationally irritated at the fact that England thought he liked Italy.

"Singing his praises? I was just being nice to him because Germany is a fucking jerk! Oh, but I forgot, you guys are best fucking friends now, right? God, it's been so long since you've had a fucking proper friend, it's making you blind to the fact that Germany's a fucking asshole!!"

"I thought I _had_ a proper friend!" England shouted back. "I thought YOU were my friend!"

And without thinking, panicking, and not quite sure what feelings were responsible for the sudden tightening in his chest, America shouted "We are NOT FRIENDS, ENGLAND!" 

There was a ringing silence after his proclamation. Every single patron was staring at them now, most with a disbelieving look on their faces, as if they knew America and England's entire situation and history, and could not believe what they were hearing. England, meanwhile, looked back at him, wide eyed, with the color quickly draining from his face. America began to shake his head.

"N-no, that isn't...that's not-I didn't-"

"It's fine." England said, in a clipped and sober tone. He ignored America's pleading gaze and stood from the table. 

"I didn't-"

"I know you didn't mean it." England interrupted, pulling out several euros from his wallet. "I know. Just...pay for the bill with these, alright? I'll. Well. I'll see you tomorrow." He threw the money on the table and began gathering his things somewhat hesitantly. America found he couldn't say anything.

And he wanted to say so much. He wanted to tell England that he wasn't capable of having friends. He wanted to tell him that trusting anybody was pretty much impossible for him. He wanted to say that he loved Canada, because he was his brother, and they would always be together, and that he loved his people and his lands, and that when he loved, it was never casual, and it was never short-term, and it was so rare that sometimes he forgot he was even capable of it, but that every time he saw England, it was like breaking down a wall of insincerity and fake personalities, and that England made him feel like there was somebody he could trust and laugh with and like and love--

But he said none of it, and he watched England gather his things and leave, back ramrod straight and suit splattered with condiments. When he was gone, America sat immobile for what seemed like an eternity. He tried to crack a smile at his waiter, but ended up cracking his plate instead.

\----------

"Do you know where America went?" Italy asked, following Spain and Prussia out of the conference room. "And should we call France an ambulance? I don't think it's safe leaving him like that..."

"He'll be fine," grunted Prussia, walking resolutely forward. "He's had worse."

"Though not much worse!" amended Spain, cheerfully, "And as for America...I don't know Italia, he left pretty early on." 

"Maybe you should lay off kid, huh?" Prussia said, quickly heading towards an exit. He needed to find his brother before he hunted down France's president and broke his kneecaps. "America strikes me as that type of guy who can't hang out with one person for too long."

"That isn't true, Prussia-nii!" Italy exclaimed, and Prussia found his heart was quickly warming. Damn, that kid was cute. "America's been very nice to Romano and I all week! The other day--"

"He bought you delicious gelato and kicked Germany's ass. Yeah, I heard, good for you kid."

At the mention of Germany, Italy's face heated up. Despite his new crush, he still got upset at the mention of the German. However, he was finding it easier and easier to just ignore his feelings, which, according to Romano, was the healthiest way to deal with feelings in general. 

"You can call him, Italia? I'm sure he's around, I saw him leave with England--" Italy frowned at the mention of the island nation, which Spain was completely oblivious to. Prussia, on the other hand, was far more observant. 

"Feeling a little negatively about Eyebrows, Italien?" he asked, with a smirk. 

"N-no..." Italy said, very convincingly. "I just...well, when he's around, America kind of pays a lot of attention to him, which isn't bad but--"

"Don't worry about that Italia, Inglaterra demands a lot of attention from everyone. And the two of them have a very close political relationship, that's why America pays him so much attention."

"Mmm...I don't know about that." Prussia said, looking at Spain with a quirked eyebrow. "America has plenty of "close political relationships", and he doesn't give a damn about them. Plus, remember in the forties, he kept trying to get England to put on a "sexy carnival suit" as a war tactic? And then that one Halloween when they wore matching costumes? Because they followed each other on _twitter_? And then--"

"Clearly-all-those-things-are-platonic-friend-things-Prussia ." Spain said in monotone voice, glaring at Prussia over Italy's head.

"Right." Prussia said, already bored with the discussion. "You're right Spain, what do I know. My observations are only based on facts and careful analysis, I couldn't possibly be right."

As the two taller nations gave each other dirty looks, Italy was deep in thought. Was it true? Were the stupid things America and England did together more than platonic? He had always thought that England was one of the less attractive European nations, and America was notoriously shallow, so he hadn't thought it would be much of a problem. But what Prussia was saying had merit...

Well, there was only one way to find out. He would tell America how much he enjoyed their time together, and he'd ask the American out on a proper date! In time, the two would fall in love, America would beat Germany up every time the German acted like a jerk, and everyone would live happily ever after. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indeed what could possibly go wrong?
> 
> Heavy on the USUK in this chapter, I know, but I think I've managed not to make the whole thing 100% about them...also, this is the America of my poli-sci classes, not quite the Hetalia!America. Sorry! Though I do think Hetalia!America exhibits a few of these traits...
> 
> Also the carnival suit thing is canon, it's in the first volume of the manga. Just sayin'.
> 
> Also I didn't update for a while because my charger won't work, so I prolly need a new computer. Grrrr.
> 
> Anyway, I didn't like this chapter too much, hopefully that improves. Oh, and prepare for America and England to be a mega assholes in the next few chapters. Sorry. D:


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Germany, Prussia, and Spain have a fun little argument. America and Italy do not.

“What do we do?!” Germany bellowed, using a newspaper to fan himself, “What do we _do?!?!_ Hollande isn’t in his office, his secretary isn’t answering my calls, and France keeps texting me pictures of his broken nose! And you _know_ I cannot have another strike on my record for assault, bruder, and I doubt they’ll believe France lied a second time--”

“Christ, calm down, will you?” Prussia said, rubbing his forehead, “You’re giving me a headache, West.” 

Spain looked between the two of them, and wondered how he could carefully extract himself from the situation. They’d ended up finding Germany, thankfully, before he’d tracked down France’s boss. However, their good luck had come at a price, as Germany had sat them down in his hotel room and proceeded to rant angrily for twenty minutes. He hadn’t provided food or drinks either, which, in Spain’s opinion, made the German a rather poor host. Even when Spain was at his worst, he would at least offer a light wine to those he was yelling at. 

Not to mention, the hotel room was uncomfortable in its own right. Germany, who was more frugal than the rest of the Europeans combined, had booked himself a room with one bed and a night stand. And a lamp. And nothing else. The three of them were sitting crosslegged on the bed like preteen girls at a slumber party. Spain could think of various things he would rather be doing, but Prussia had made it clear that he would not face Germany alone. And unfortunately, with France out of commission, Spain found himself playing the loyal friend, which normally just meant the equally drunk friend. So this was rather new.

“Do you realize how much money we lost?” Germany was saying, once Spain tuned into the conversation again, “And what did they spend it on? Supplies for their next strike?!”

“Amigo, we’re all angry at Francia right, okay? But sitting in this room huffing and puffing won’t solve anything.”

“Oh, and what do you suggest Spain?” Too late, Spain realized interjecting had been a mistake. Prussia seemed to agree, with the way he was now shaking his head. “Perhaps you have a solution, for once?”

“What are you implying?” Spain replied, puffing out his chest in annoyance, which was rather difficult to do in the position he was sitting in.

Prussia rolled his eyes, “Can we be calm here, please? Remember who the enemy is. It’s France. And the modern mechanisms of our economies, but mostly France.”

Germany nodded, seemingly not noticing Spain’s display of dominance. “You’re right, Preußen. We shouldn’t fight. All we can do now is lobby America to sanction France, and it should be decent payback.”

“Better get England on that, then.” Prussia said, uncrossing his legs and attempting to roll of their bed. “I think he’s in a decent mood, and he’d prolly jump at the chance to fuck with France even more, heh. You guys want anything to drink from the minibar?”

“Vodka, please,” Germany grunted, clearly to upset to care about the expensive alcohol that would inevitably be charged to his room. “Put it in a glass.” He was facing away from the fridge, so he didn’t see Prussia turn back around to make faces at him.

Spain wasn’t paying attention to Prussia’s tactics either, however. “Well, why do we have to ask Inglaterra to talk to America? Let’s just ask Italia, they’re getting very chummy!” He ignored the wild eyed glare Prussia shot his way, as well as the gestures he was making to stop talking. Well, everyone assumed Spain was oblivious, so why not take advantage of that once in a while?

Besides, Germany was clearly in work/panic mode still, because he did not react in discomfort as Prussia probably expected him to. Instead, he calmly raised one brow. “Spain, this isn’t a favor for concert tickets or art shows, this is business. Not that I’m completely on board with punishing France economically, by the way,” he said, turning to look at Prussia pointedly. Prussia shrugged.

“Look, I’m sure there’s a way to do it without harming the EU. Uuh, too much. And anyway, Spain, we use England as our go-between for a reason, remember?”

Spain frowned. He did indeed remember. Unfortunately, because America was a superpower, he had a lot of nations vying for his attention, especially because Alfred himself had significant pull in his government, for whatever reason. Spain figured no one had realized just how much of an idiot Alfred was, but that was neither here nor there. The point was, with so many nations fighting for attention, it was hard to hold America’s for too long, especially if you had a favor to ask him. 

Europe, however, had a secret weapon, and that was the fact that America barely had any personal friends. As a result, his relationship with England was very valuable. England, who had no trouble using his friends to get what he wanted, would see America every month, they’d do whatever the hell they always did together, and then he’d relay business and favors that other Europeans had wanted him too. This was usually the best way to bring a serious matter to America’s attention (because, unfortunately, America seemed to be under the impression that business meetings were for everything _but_ business).

Spain, however, hated this system with a passion. First, it meant sucking up to England for a few days, which was fun for nobody. And if one managed to do so successfully, they’d have to trust that England would actually remember to relay the message in between the pub crawls and horror movie marathons he and America were so attached to. Often, England did not remember. Especially when it was Spain who’d asked him for help. 

And besides, England and America _were_ just friends, despite all Prussia’s delusions. If Italy became his boyfriend, America was even _more_ likely to pay attention to their problems!

...And ugh, Spain could not believe he’d had a thought like that. He couldn’t wait until China replaced America as the superpower, there seemed to be more room for dignity in that arrangement.

“We use England because he’s one of America’s only friends, but that can change!”

“Hey, you zoned out for like five minutes, amigo, we are way off that topic now.” Prussia scoffed, taking a sip of what looked like vodka. In which case, Spain had spaced out for a while. It was one of his more debilitating habits. 

“When he and Italia find amor, they’ll be so smitten with each other, America will do anything for us!” He tried to ignore Germany’s exponentially paling face and Prussia’s death glare. “He’ll probably even beat up France, if Italia asked him!”

“Okay, first of all, we already beat up France real good,” Prussia started, but was tragically interrupted. 

“And Italia is so much sweeter, I bet he’ll know exactly how to--”

“Spanien, can you shut up, please.” Germany said in that ‘I’m telling you not asking you’ tone he favored so much. “This is an inappropriate discussion to be having.” 

“Yeah, dude, _chill_ ,” Prussia hissed, pushing a glass of wine into Spain’s hands. Spain rolled his eyes.

“Well, you guys are just going to have to get used to the idea. Ask Romano, those two will be together by the end of this week.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Cranky McVirgin was the new relationship guru of the Western hemisphere,” Prussia spat sarcastically, which had Spain puffing up his chest all over again. 

“Well, he’s certainly more qualified than you!” Spain said, jabbing his finger into Prussia’s arm, “At least he’s been in a relationship in the past century!”

“I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life that be stuck with that pile of whiny tomatoes!” 

“Spanien, _nein_.” Germany commanded, preventing Spain from breaking Prussia’s jaw. “And can you two stop bickering? Now I’m getting a headache.”  
As Spain tried to calm himself down, Prussia downed the rest of his vodka. “Well, as fun as this was, I’m going to try and find people who aren’t as much of a bummer as you guys. Bruder, if I find out you’ve stalked any of France’s government officials I’m going to be very cross with you.” Germany grunted in response, loosening his grip on Spain’s shoulders. “I mean it! And Spain, when you stop being a dick, text me, we can probably break into Francis’ flat and take his dessert wines.” And Spain, while still being rather upset at the German duo, found he could not pass up the opportunity for stolen wine. 

\--------------

Italy had spent most of the afternoon, and a fair bit of his evening, on the phone with his boss, attempting to explain why exactly their substantial deposit of euros into France’s private accounts were missing. He found he couldn’t get through much information without his boss interrupting him and praying to all the Saints several times. But then again, this was understandable. Italy had not been very financially oriented in decades, but even he was having some unpleasant thoughts about France at the moment.

By the time he had finished his phone call, the sun had long set in the glowing city of Paris. He figured that it was a beautiful night, and that there wasn’t much else he could do to get back at France (he’d sent the older nation lilies instead of roses at the hospital, that ought to show his displeasure). Therefore, it seemed a good a time as any to hunt America down and talk about the way their friendship was going. 

Italy smiled like a dope. He couldn’t believe how excited America made him lately. He hadn’t had butterflies in his stomach for what felt like centuries (and in his case that probably wasn’t much of an exaggeration)! And the two were just so alike, it was incredible. America was nice, cheerful, optimistic, and didn’t give long diatribes about ‘cashflow statements’. And, best of all, he got along with all of Italy’s friends as well, which probably meant he could be a seamless addition to Italy’s social circle! 

Hopefully, Italy would not have to hang out as much with England and Canada, though. Close to America they may be, it still didn’t excuse their behavior when their respective sports teams would lose a football/hockey match. Barbaric was a gentle way of describing it. 

It didn’t take long for Italy to find the hotel America was staying at. Initially, Italy had thought that he and America could stay at the same place, but America had shot that plan down rather urgently. Spain had said that it was just a sign that America ‘respected Italy’s boundaries’, so the young Italian didn’t mind too much. He knocked on America’s ornate wooden door, taking a second to admire the craftsmanship. France’s people really were talented, even if they stole investment capital from their allies…

America flung the door open, looking rather harried. Italy noticed his hair was wet and pulled back away from his face with a bobby pin. It took an incredible amount of self restraint not to coo at it.

“Italy?” America asked, looking somehow panicked and confused at the same time. “What are you doing here?”

Italy smiled in the brightest way he could, and showed America the lager he’d bought at a market two streets down, “Ve, I was hoping to find you here! I wanted to talk, and look, I found some nice beer for us to try!”

America’s expression did not change. “Uh, you could have called? Look this isn’t really the best time.”

Italy’s smiled dimmed a tad, and he lowered the bottle. “Oh...I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had plans…”

America, finding that he wasn’t completely heartless, groaned inwardly at the look on Italy’s face. “...No, don’t worry about it, I don’t. Please, come in.” He rolled his eyes when Italy immediately perked up and bounced into the hotel suite, but the Italian pretended not to notice.

“Wow, this is a lovely room, America!” he exclaimed, seeing the rather large window with a view of the city. America nodded distractedly.

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Especially since I booked it so short notice. So, do you want me to crack this bottle open?” Italy tore his gaze from the beautiful view to find America taking the beer from Italy’s hands. “I think there’s glasses somewhere in here, I haven’t had a chance to look around, haha.”

“I’d love a drink, thank you.” Italy said, beaming, and felt a bit warm at the sight of America prodding off the cap with seemingly no effort. Ah, to be strong and youthful again…

“So, Italy,” America started, pouring Italy’s drink into a tall glass, “I’m kinda glad you’re here. I was wondering, have you seen England around?”

Italy’s smile froze. “...Hm?”

“England,” America repeated, giving Italy a condescending look, “I’ve been looking for him all day, have you seen him? I was hoping he went back to all you Euro nerds after lunch.”

Euro nerds? “Ve, I haven’t seen him, sorry America.” Italy replied, watching the American pour himself some beer in a substantially larger glass. “You can call him later, perhaps?”

“I’ve tried calling him, dude, c’mon,” America said, walking towards Italy, glasses in hand. “He won’t answer. I said some shitty things to him at lunch today, he’s probably avoiding me. You know how he gets, kinda dramatic, haha…”

Italy nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find him...ve, America, I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

America sipped at his beer delicately. “Okay, shoot.”

Italy took a deep breath, and tried to remind himself that America had been a perfect gentleman for more than a week, that Italy liked him quite a bit, and that nervousness was a natural process in any relationship at first. “I just wanted to say, I had a lot of fun with you this week. The most I’ve had in a while, actually.”

America smiled lightly, “Aw, I’m glad, dude. You look most natural when you’re happy, I’m glad I could help.”

“Yes…” that was a good response, yes? Italy figured it was. A smiling America was a receptive one. “You did help. Especially when Germany came the first night. I don’t know what I would have done without you there. You...know I’ve had a bit of trouble, with him recently, but you sort of saved me…” he was blushing bright red at this point, but he figured America wasn’t perceptive enough to figure out why quite yet. “You were my hero that night, America, and every night since then. I want to say...thank you.”

America hummed in what seemed to be agreement, and Italy noticed he was staring intently at his phone. “Yeah, it’s no problem, that’s what I do, haha. I’m like ninety-five percent sure Captain America was based off me.”

“Right…” Italy said, blush receding somewhat. “Anyway, what I really wanted to ask was, um, because we’ve had so much fun the past few weeks...maybe we can go out sometime? Like an official date? My boss said I had to stay in Paris until everything was sorted, and I’m sure you could ask to get your vacation extended…

America had looked up from his phone, at long last, but the look on his face wasn’t very encouraging, which made Italy a little nervous. “I-I just think we hit it off really well…”

“Oh, Italy,” America finally replied, grinning broadly. He reached over to clasp Italy’s hand, which made the smaller man flush red yet again. “Haha, dude. No.”

Italy’s smile froze on his face. America shook his head and leaned back in his chair, releasing Italy’s hand and returning to stare at his phone. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression or anything. I didn’t think you’d hear wedding bells after hanging out with someone for a week.”

“Wedding bells?” Italy concentrated on not letting his voice crack, “I-I was just--”

“It was a joke,” America interrupted, swiping his phone unlocked, “Look, I really am sorry. You’re really nice and all, but we barely know each other, yeah?”

Italy nodded slowly, trying to stave off the familiar response of tears. He stared at America, who was not clearly texting someone, and seemingly done with the subject. 

“I’m not your type, anyway. Who put you up to asking me out? Spain?” he laughed at his own suggestion while Italy stared at his blase countenance. “You shouldn’t listen to him dude, he’s a notoriously bad matchmaker. Remember when he tried to set Russia up with Australia?”

Italy swallowed thickly.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” he said lowly, causing America to look up from his phone.

“Whoa...don’t cry, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you, or whatever,”

“If you didn’t mean to hurt me, you’d at the very least have looked at me the entire time we were talking. Ciao, America.” And with that, Italy launched himself out of his seat and power walked to the door, hoping the fact that he was being a bit melodramatic wouldn’t register on America’s radar. So, he had been wrong, and Spain had been wrong, and Romano had been wrong. It was fine. He just wished they hadn’t all been _this_ wrong. He stifled a sob.

“Damn, two in one day--how the fuck did I manage that?” Italy heard America say, but he did not turn around to ask what the superpower meant. Instead, feeling angry and hurt, he slammed America’s door shut, and strode down the hallway, looking for someone to blame. He wondered how effective his righteous anger would be when he had tears streaming down his face. 

\--------------

The sleek phone buzzed on the table, prompting England and France to stop the shouting match they’d once again gotten into. When England checked the screen, he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“...D’you know if Italy has any business with me?”

“What?” France said, and winced in an attempt to sit up. England rolled his eyes and threw his phone onto France’s bed.

(The twin bed he was currently laying in, which was located on the third floor of a central Parisian hospital. As it had turned out, Germany’s hit had been rather devastating to France’s nose, which filled England with glee. So much so he almost forgot his embarrassing screaming match with America.

Almost.)

France frowned at the phone’s screen, which flashed a single notification:

_**Italy:** inghilterra, are you still around? can you text me if u r, i wanna ask you something. grazie!! :3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. Sometimes writer's block hits hard. This should end in three chapters? Imma do it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England flexes his muscles, Germany is a hero, and America spills a lot of expensive wine.

“Well, _mon amour_?” France said, tossing England’s phone back to him carelessly. Only years of catching fragile objects his brothers threw at him allowed England to reach it with relative ease. “Are you going to see him?”

“Who, Italy?” England scoffed, pocketing his phone, “I suppose I will, I have nothing important to do for the rest of the day.” 

France sat up, still holding his bruised nose, and glared at his smug companion, “Oi, you must stay here, _Angleterre!_ You promised Francois you would escort me home!”

“Like I said, nothing important,” England said, smirking. At France’s purpling face, he rolled his eyes and let his expression drop to neutral. “I’m joking, frog, Christ. I’ll protect you from the Euro brutes that want to kick your arse. Not that I blame them, incidentally.” 

France huffed, but he leaned back in his bed, seemingly placated. “Then, will you see him?” 

England shrugged, taking his phone out to type a response, “Why not? He can come here, give you a good talking to and all?” Surprisingly, Italy responded momentarily after England had texted him his whereabouts. 

_**Italy** : ah, so I can see you at the hospital? Oki ill be there soon, ciao! _

“Seriously though, what could he want from me?” England wondered aloud, walking towards France’s bed and sitting down primly. France didn’t answer, but instead looked at England, a bit conflicted. England chose to ignore the Frenchman’s facial expressions, as he often did, mostly because he really didn’t care what Francis had to say. “D’you think he’s going to ask to borrow money?” He frowned at the thought. “Because though it seems like I’m very financially stable and wealthy and all that rot, I’m actually just surviving on credit and Russia’s oligarchs…”

“I doubt he wants money from you, Angleterre,” France said, having a concrete idea about why Italy might have been seeking England’s company, “It’s no secret you’re a mess, we don’t want your shady money.”

“My money is not shady!” England replied, affronted. France fought the urge to grin. “It’s not…I mean, it was…” the more England sputtered, the more the Frenchman gave into his instinct to laugh, “The investments we make are—shut the _fuck up, frog,_ I am not the one who lost a million euros to my incompetent President!!”

By now, France was laughing uproariously and England’s flushed face, and barely avoided England’s halfhearted punch in his direction. He forced himself to calm down, before England really got upset. He wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at his frienemy fondly, “This is true, mon cher.” England huffed, seemingly satisfied with France’s admission. However, France continued, “But I did not lose a million euros either.”

England’s eyes widened, “What do you mean, you didn’t lose it?” 

“It’s just I said. I did not lose any money.” 

“But—“ England sputtered, not liking France’s sly smile, “But—you did! Of course you bloody did, otherwise, why the fuck would we all be here?!” Frustratingly, France’s knowing smile did not budge, “France stop fucking grinning, what the _fuck is your problem--_ ” 

“Angleterre, stop yelling, it’s very unbecoming,” France sniffed, snooty as ever, a trait of his that England had always detested. As much as he lectured America on manners and poise, he supposed he would always be considered a savage to nations like France and Austria, and even _Italy_ , because they’d forever be older and wiser and so much more civilized. Perhaps it was one of the many reasons he’d preferred America’s company as of late. It was nice to be act older and more civilized for a change (and the fact that America still indulged him, even though he now knew very well that England was anything but sophisticated was rather…

…interesting).

“Fine,” England said, already tired of France’s air of ‘mystery’, “Don’t tell me what you meant, I don’t really give a shit.” France glared back at him.

“I miss when you fought back, mon cher. This giving up nonsense is positively dull.”

England smirked, “I don’t particularly care what you find dull, darling.” This apathy angle was new for him. Whenever he and France fought, it was always England who got fired up and exponentially angry and worn out. France, meanwhile, seemed unperturbed and unaffected. It was frustrating. Still, England supposed that it was about time France got a taste of his own snooty medicine…

…even if England WAS dying to find out what France meant by “not losing any money”.

The next twenty minutes were spent in relative silence. France was sulking, every so often moaning pitifully about his nose, while England sat up on the edge of his bed and checked his email. It was a pity he and America were in a pseudo-fight at the moment, because there were actually quite a few things England needed his help on.

By the time Italy texted that he’d arrived at the hospital, England had composed at least five potential text drafts which politely asked America to stop being an asshole. Thankfully, Italy interrupted just as England was debating which one to send. Thank god for small miracles.

“Italia!” France exclaimed once Italy appeared through his door. Pain seemingly forgotten, the Frenchman launched himself from the bed into Italy’s outstretched arms, “Big brother is so happy to see you!”

“Ve, ni-chan,” Italy replied, sleepy-eyed as usual. England tried very hard not to seem bitter, “I’m happy to see you’re okay. You look much better!”

Everyone ignored the blatant lie.

“So, Italy,” England said, feeling uncharacteristically blunt, “I’m sure you’re not here to visit the frog, eh? What’s going on?” Italy smiled at him sunnily, causing France to coo at him immediately. England remembered that this was the man America had been spending a lot of time with, and instantaneously felt sick. 

“Ah, right, Arthur!” Italy said, “Come with me!”

Both England and France blanched at Italy’s casual use of England’s human name. Of course, it was not unusual for them to address each other by their human names when they were in public, as it lent them a modicum on anonymity. However, in private, it was very rare to use them. A nation would use a human name only if they were being very affectionate…or very caustic. But Italy didn’t have a mean bone in his body (not since the second great war anyway), so England was left to assume Italy thought them great friends. Which was a rather unexpected revelation.

Italy led England out of France’s room in silence, leaving France behind, wide eyed. England meanwhile tried to regain control of his facial expression, to look neutral and bored as he always did. He found he was having a hard time of it, “Italy…is something wrong? Where are we going?”

“We’re just going to an emptier room, nothing dramatic!” Italy answered brightly, completely ignoring England’s first question. They made their way down the hospital hallway, with Italy cheerfully greeting doctors and nurses who passed by. England looked at them with an expression akin to that of a dry lemon. Lovely.

Eventually Italy pulled him into an empty room, shutting the door behind them.

England frowned, “Alright, I suppose that was—“

“England, what’s your relationship to America?” Italy asked, interrupting whatever England was going to stutter out.

The Briton blinked, frown deepening, “…I’m sorry, what?”

“Are you guys in a relationship?” Italy continued, looking sharper-eyed than England had seen him in a while, “Have you been hiding it from us? Because you know, you could get into a lot of trouble if you haven’t reported it to us or your respective governments.”

“I—I—what?” England sputtered, eloquently, “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with you, are you drunk?”

“Sorry, alcoholism is your problem, not mine.” England’s jaw dropped. “You do know we’re all supposed to report every relationship we’ve been in to our leadership, right?”

“Why are you—what—“

“ _Including_ every one night stand. I know you haven’t been reporting anything though, because your boss seems to be under the impression that you’re rather virginal, when you’re actually the biggest whor—“

“ _Now see here,_ ” England hissed, flushing red with anger, “you better back the fuck off _Feliciano_ or I’ll—“

“You’ll what? Hit me?” Italy interrupted, looking a little flushed himself. England felt his fists clenching. “Push me around like you do everyone else? Dio, what does he even _see_ in you?! Are you somehow not rude and mean when you’re alone with him?” when England raised his hands in an aggressive gesture, Italy flinched, but did not put his own hands in the defensive pose he usually did, “Answer my question!”

“I AM NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH ANYBODY NOW LET ME _HIT YOU_!!” England yelled, green eyes ablaze with ferocity and rage. A little too late, Italy realized he probably pushed too far. All the courage he’d gained during their confrontation fled his body as soon as England raised himself to his full height. 

“W-wait, England…I didn’t want to insult you, that’s just the only way I know to make you—“

England roared like a wild beast, and Italy felt all feeling drain from his face. 

\--------------

After Prussia and Spain abandoned him, Germany contacted every European official who may have known where France’s President was. He was on the phone with Bulgaria’s bullish Deputy Prime Minister, who was insisting that the French leader was hiding out in a whorehouse (“Vat can I say, Vestern Europe is very predictable, yes”?). Germany was massaging his temple, attempting to understand the man’s thick accent, which was never pleasant or easy. Just as he was beginning to think of an excuse to hang up the phone, he saw that somebody else was trying to reach him.

_Thank gott._

“I’m very sorry, I have to take this,” Germany said, interrupting the Bulgarian Prime Minister rather abruptly, “I will, of course, call you back soon,” he hung up with little fanfare and answered his call waiting.

“Hello?”

“ _Germany!!_ ” At Italy’s voice, Germany gasped out loud and nearly dropped his phone, “ _Germany, are you there?!_ ”

“J-Ja,” Germany replied, mentally slapping himself for his reaction, “Italy, is that you? Why do you sound so out-of-breath?”

“Th-there’s—little—time—to—explain—“ Germany furrowed his eyebrows. Was Italy…running? “I—need you to—come—ARGH INGLETARRA I SAID I WAS SORRY—“ 

“I’m on my way,” Germany said abruptly and used the tracker he’d placed on Italy’s phone to get his coordinates (it wasn’t illegal if he’d had permission to do it…even if the permission was from a decade ago…). It sounded like his wimpy ex had pissed off one of the most volatile nations possible, and while Germany wasn’t feeling particularly warmly towards Italy at the moment, he wasn’t heartless. Italy was still a relatively strong country, but England was stronger, and even worse, a total brute. Germany hoped England could control himself for the sake of decency, but he really couldn’t count on it. 

By the time he reached them, Italy had a bloody nose and was hiding in a tall tree in a rather lovely Parisian park. England was being restrained by three lithe men and a rather strong looking woman. They seemed to be having an extremely hard time holding on to the Briton. Lovely. 

“COME DOWN HERE ITALY, FUCKING FIGHT IT OUT YOU NASTY COWARD—” England was screeching, attempting to throw off his four opponents and almost managing to do it.

“Monsieur, stay away!” the woman shouted at Germany in French when she saw him approaching, “This man is clearly deranged, you must not get close!” 

“He keeps saying ‘Italy’…” one of the men said confusedly, and Germany could feel the vein in his neck throb. Was England a complete idiot?! What was he doing, charging at Italy and yelling their real identities for all of Paris to hear?

“He is my friend, I promise, he will do no harm,” Germany replied in his clunky French, “Thank you for restraining him, I will take it from here.” He grabbed onto England’s arms and with great difficulty managed to keep them behind his back. “You may go, thank you for all your help.” He watched as the men and the woman left, throwing himself, England, and Italy a lot of strange looks as they departed. When they were far enough, Germany returned his attention to the struggling Englishman in his grip.

“England, what the fuck were you thinking?!” Germany hissed, finding it difficult to keep England subdued, “Those were ordinary citizens, and you were screaming Italy’s name like a mad man—“

“HE PROVOKED ME!” England roared and nearly broke out of Germany’s grasp. Germany saw Italy, who had tentatively poked his head out of the tree, shuffle back inside the leaves with a whimper. 

“To be fair, you are easily unsettled,” Germany tried to say calmly while holding on to England’s waylaid wrist. He frowned. Whatever England was, he wasn’t a liar…what was Italy doing, provoking a fight? “Come on, Kirkland, it wouldn’t be a satisfying fight anyway. Let’s leave Feliciano alone for now, there are better things to be doing. I heard my brother has procured a bottle of Francis’ best wine.”

England seemed to give this proposition some serious thought. 

“…Fine,” he finally said, ceasing to struggle against Germany’s grasp, “You’re right, it’s not worth it. Bloody idiot.” England spit in Italy’s direction, then turned around, marching out of the park, Germany in tow. The German turned his head towards Italy’s tree and made several vague hand gestures, which could have meant _‘we are talking about this later!’_ if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head.   
\--------------

Germany’s brother, meanwhile, was holding up his procured bottle of dessert wine triumphantly, and was being cheered on by Spain and America, who had run into the two of them accidentally, looking quite a bit tipsy already. Prussia handed the wine off to Spain just as his phone began to buzz. He wrangled it out of his jeans pocket and swiped the screen unlocked. And began to grin.

_**Germany:** Where are you? I’m bringing England with me, we need a drink. Might bring Italy later, we need to talk with him._

A perfect recipe for chaos, it seemed, and chaos was Prussia’s middle name. 

(America spilled half the bottle of wine on Prussia’s lap, and Prussia decided that chaos would probably require more booze).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost doooooone. I finally got my computer back, and it turns out I'd written most of the chapter. Yay!
> 
> It terms of why I think England would be really strong...the UK has a relatively strong economy at the moment (5th in the world, passed France), a rather strong military, and is considered to have a high quality of life. Therefore, I think England would probably be one of the strongest nations in terms of physical strength. I know we like to talk about the 'decline of the British empire' but the UK is still one of the strongest nations in the world. I'm not really sure if Germany would be stronger or not--I actually think they'd be on pretty equal footing.
> 
> America still completely obliterates England in terms of physical strength, although he doesn't demonstrate it often. Isn't that what true love really is? :')


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all strings are tied up, and the authors vehemently pretend that Brexit did not happen for the sake of continuity. 
> 
> ALSO - READ THE NOTES PLEASE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THIS NOTE PLEASE READ IT R E A D I T 
> 
> OK guys I won't lie to you, the struggle with finishing this story was way too real. I kinda didn't even think I could do it at one point (12 pages in if you're curious). Like, I was going to do the unthinkable and abandon ship, because I really had no way to end this thing.
> 
> AND THEN ALONG CAME MY SAVIOR (and yours too) - otterystkisses is a irl friend who is a BEAST at writing (like unlike me she writes real shit) who has similar ideas about Hetalia and characterization. She is the reason this fic has an ending, and I am so appreciative of her ideas and talent, which are 300x greater than my own (you'll notice this chapter is cleverer and more complex in terms of plot than others - this is why). So thanks girl, without you none of these dumb nations would have a happy ending.

When Germany and a very disgruntled England finally arrived at the hole in the wall Prussia had settled into, they were both shocked to find the aforementioned nation sitting with Spain at a table, watching calmly as America moved his limbs to the rhythm of the music blasting from the surrounding speakers. His actions could almost be considered ‘dancing’ if they weren’t so spastic - the drink he held in his hand was sloshing out onto the sleeve of his jacket, though America seemed completely unaware of it. 

“Bloody hell, is he drunk?” England said, and Germany shared his bewilderment. America did not get drunk. Tipsy, perhaps, when he was among friends, but certainly not drunk enough to perform whatever the hell was happening in front of Germany’s eyes. 

“There you are!” Prussia suddenly called from across the bar, raising his drink in welcome. His voice carried, despite the noisiness of the room, and America twirled around to look at them, nearly falling over in the process.

“Engl’nd!” he slurred, and Germany followed England, who was now making a beeline for his drunken ally, “I’m so -hic- glad y’all could make it! Look, Prussia got me whisk’y!” After knocking over at least three people, Germany apologizing to them in his terrible French, the two of them finally made their way to America, just in time to brace him and prevent him from tripping over himself. “They h’ve beer f’r you guys -hic- too! But I kn’w you like gin, Engl’nd, I’ll get you a gin - hey, barkeep!”

“Keep your voice down!” England hissed, then turned to Prussia and Spain. “What the fuck have you done with him?!” 

“He’s been drinking all day,” Spain said, “We didn’t know that. He just had some wine and one whiskey with us, it’s not usually enough to knock him on his ass like that.”

Prussia smirked in a way that made Germany nervous. “Besides, we aren’t his keepers, England. He’s a big boy now, he can get pissed if he wants.” 

“You stupid wankers -” England began to say but was interrupted when America sagged into both him and Germany, putting his full weight onto the two nations. Germany, who worked on his physique every day and considered himself rather strong, had to brace himself to keep them all upright. And England, who considered walks in the park strenuous exercise and had already used up most of his energy trying to get to Italy, nearly tottered completely. 

“I t’ld them we fought, Engl’nd,” America said sadly, seemingly unaware that the two nations were struggling to keep him standing, “I kn’w you got really mad me. ‘M sorry. I kinda meant wh’t I said, but not how you think…”

“America,” Germany grunted, deciding this intimate conversation would not happen while he was literally intertangled with them, “Sit the hell down, and get off of us.” He and England, with some struggle, deposited America into a chair between Spain and Prussia, who were attempting not to laugh outwardly at America’s state. England, now free of America’s weight, kicked at Prussia’s shin. Germany did not try to stop him, as he was also not feeling particularly warmly towards his brother tonight. 

“When I said we needed a drink, I did not mean this!” Germany said, finally taking notice of the various bottles and glasses that littered Prussia’s table. “Have you all forgotten that we have a crisis on our hands? Money cannot simply disappear from our funds, we must contact the President!” 

“I’ll lend y’all money!” America announced graciously, raising a newly poured glass of whiskey. England tore it out of his grasp before Spain and Prussia could cheer on his kindness. 

“The hell you will,” England growled at the three of them, who managed to look shamefaced. He then turned back to Germany. “There isn’t much we can do now. The frog is being purposely obtuse, and I doubt we’ll be able to draw France’s president away from whatever whorehouse he’s settled into for the night.” 

“You know,” Germany marveled, “The Bulgarian prime minister was just saying the same thing…”

“England’s right!” Prussia said, wrapping an unsteady arm around Germany and forcing him to sit down, “There isn’t much we can do. So let’s drink and be merry, hm? Germany’ll pay for the next round! Barkeep!” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” England said, burrowing his head in his arms. America was immediately at his side, and to everyone’s surprise, wrapped both of his arms around the Brit in an uncomfortable-looking side hug. He crushed the smaller man into his chest, and England looked like he was having trouble breathing. 

“‘M sorry we’re all such wankers,” America said, and suddenly Spain did not look as jubilant as before. 

“Where’s Italy, America?” Spain asked, putting down his glass at long last. His question caused a ripple of discomfort around the table, with England in particular looking nuclear once more. Germany cursed Spain’s very existence, and said:

“He’s just in a park, a few blocks down from here.”

And England, who was a terrible excuse for a human being, added, “I chased him up a tree after giving him a bloody nose.” 

America gave England a rather incredulous look. “You used ‘bloody’ c’rrectly for once,” he pointed out, and Spain banged his hands on the table, causing any leftover glasses to topple, spilling all manner of alcohol and liquids onto the table and (because he had the _worst_ luck) into Germany’s lap. He took a moment to thank every deity he’d ever believed in that he’d worn dark trousers that day. 

“You chased him up a _tree_?!” Spain said, eyes so wide they nearly popped out of his skull. When England merely smirked in response, Spain whirled to face Germany. “And you just thought it was okay to leave him there?!” 

“I was giving him a chance to escape,” Germany said defensively. It wasn’t his job to look after Italy anymore - it was only the rather strong vestiges of his feelings towards the Italian that forced him to protect Italy from England in the first place. And besides, no matter what Spain seemed to think, Italy was a grown man who could take care of a bloody nose. He’d fought in wars, for Christ’s sake. “He didn’t seem eager to have me or England stick around. I was going to check up on him later-” 

“Useless!” Spain cried, “All of you!”

England was frowning deeply, which marred his usually handsome features. “He’s not a toddler who needs you to babysit him, Spain,” he said, “And he isn’t exactly Mother bloody Theresa! He came to see me when I was with the frog, arrogantly as you please, and announced that I was an alcoholic slag, then seemed surprised when I decided to give him a piece of my fucking mind!”

Spain shook his head, taking note of England’s flushed cheeks, which America had taken to staring at. “He wouldn’t do that…”

“WELL HE FUCKING DID!” England shouted, and Germany groaned loudly, unhappy to note that England was infuriated all over again. Prussia and Spain, meanwhile, looked very puzzled at his outburst. “He said I was an alcoholic, and mean, and nasty -”

“Well, are any of those things false?” Prussia interrupted, then sniggered to himself. Germany found himself smirking along with his brother, and even Spain, though he was clearly still upset on Italy’s behalf, managed a conspiratorial grin. And England, visibly upset, did not argue. America, however, did not join in on the merriment and began to glare at everyone around the table. He then unwrapped his arms from around England’s shoulders in order to lightly push at Prussia (and, in America terms, ‘lightly push’ meant he shoved Prussia off his chair completely). 

“All of those things are false!” he said, sounding slightly more clearheaded, “England isn’t superficially nice all the time, but that doesn’t mean he’s a nasty person. So maybe he bitches at you when you spill beer or something, but at least he’s always upfront with you, and he doesn’t lie to your face. Look at Italy - yeah he’s always nice and he makes you pasta but like, the whole time he’s secretly scared of you, or he thinks you’re a drunk slut? How is that nice?” 

England looked mortified at America’s defense, but it made Germany thoughtful. He’d always thought Italy was one of the kindest people he’d met, regardless of his leaders’ political action and motivation. However, rather than admiring Italy for it, Germany had always resented the smaller nation a bit. How could one compare themselves to Italy, kind and patient Italy, without feeling terrible about themselves? It used to drive Germany insane.

But America’s remarks had a sense of truth - perhaps Italy’s cowardice did result in a disguise of kindness rather than a truly positive personality. And somehow, that made Germany more sympathetic towards his ex. Perhaps if Italy wasn’t perfect...then Germany didn’t have to be either…

Spain was watching him strangely now. Germany shrugged off his gaze; it wouldn’t do to have such introspective thoughts. Not when America was about to bang on the table with moderate strength (and in America terms, ‘moderate strength’ would have severed the table straight in half).

“We get it, America,” Germany said, catching America’s fist before it broke their table. America looked mollified. 

“Good,” he said, and heavily leaned into England’s side again. An England whose expression looked rather constipated. 

“I’m going to get Italy,” Spain announced, and waved off the flurry of protests that erupted. “No, I won’t hear it! It doesn’t do us any good if we’re all just angry at each other without resolution. We’ll drink, have a good time, be merry, and _no one_ is punching anyone else, got it?!” he eyed England critically, but immediately backed off when America scowled. England shrugged, seemingly oblivious to the protection America was offering him and addressed the waiter who’d just come to take their order.

“Yes, I’d like a gin, please? Straight. And keep them coming all night if you please, love,” America giggled from his huddled seat, and Spain immediately set off to find his second favorite Italian brother.

\--------------

“Drink up me hearties, yo-ho!” America bellowed, and Germany and Prussia roared in laughter at his 'melodious' singing voice. They each clanked their mugs of beer together, not bothering to stop the slosh of alcohol which fell onto the table. England, who had not gotten drunk enough yet, merely glared at them. 

“Will you idiots shut up, please,” he said, nursing his third gin. 

“You’re lovely,” America said, and to Prussia and Germany’s delight, England immediately flushed red and withdrew, unable to berate them further. This had been happening all night - England attempted to be a party-pooper, America complimented him, and England shut up for a while, allowing Prussia, America, and now Germany to behave however they wanted. It wasn’t often that Germany loosened up, but when he did, he truly could have an excellent time. If it had been any other day, he would have wondered at the implications of America’s behavior towards England, what it meant for the international stage, what it meant for the European Union, etc. 

But tonight, he had beer, he had friends, and he had stupid songs. Nothing could bring him down. 

“Let’s sing ‘S’rry’ by J. Biebs next!” America suggested, and Germany, surprising even himself, breathed in deeply, preparing to ask the whole bar if it was too late now to say sorry at the top of his lungs. Thankfully for the French occupants, this suggestion snapped England out of his embarrassed funk. 

“I will end you!” he said, propelling himself out of his chair and standing directly behind America, clapping his hands over the superpower's mouth. He had the right idea - when America was silenced, both Prussia and Germany were suddenly not shameless enough to perform an acapella version of a Justin Bieber song. America, meanwhile, shut his eyes and indulgently slumped into England’s chest.

“What is wrong with all of you?” England demanded, staggering slightly as he tried to adjust to an armful of drunk America, “And how am I not fucking wasted yet?” 

“I -” began a breezy reply, and Germany cringed at the familiar tones. England immediately looked murderous, and Prussia - egregiously happy. “- am surprised my favorite delinquent has not forced his head into a toilet yet!” 

It was, indeed, France, with several bandages covering his usually slim nose. Trailing behind him were Spain, Italy, and of course, Romano, because Germany’s night had been going far too well up to this point. With the exception of France, they each looked rather morose, Italy’s eyes in particular darting from England to America to Germany in rapid succession. But Germany, with thoughts of an ‘imperfect Italy’ in mind, found it in himself to jubilantly reach towards his ex and push a bottle of Heineken into his hand. 

“Everyone here is going to be nice, Feliciano, I promise,” he said confidently. Italy blinked at him, and slowly retreated back to the end of the table where Spain and Romano were now making to sit. Still, he took the beer with him, which Germany counted as an accomplishment. 

“Thanks, Germany,” he managed to respond before Romano threw up his arms and nearly toppled the beer bottle. 

“Are we all just gonna sit around here looking stupid, or are we gonna get wasted and beat up Frenchie for losing all our money??” Everyone cheered, with the exception of France, who had become as pale as a particularly clean patch of snow. 

\--------------

They had been drinking for three hours straight, and no one seemed to have kept the role of the responsible adult in the ensuing madness. They’d shuffled their seating around as well, as no one had wanted to sit next to Spain and Romano when they were snogging. America, who was arguably the worst off, was especially prone to being a mess. When England, Prussia, Germany, and France decided that it would be a great idea if they found instruments and played Rammstein covers for the bar, America climbed over their abandoned chairs to Italy, wobbling dangerously the entire time. The Italian was not incredibly aware of America’s struggle, however. 

“It’ly,” America panted, finally arriving at his destination, “I’m s’ happy you’re here…” Italy, who was already a shade beyond tipsy, inclined his head in acknowledgment of America’s statement. America continued, “‘M sorry I was like, so mean. I w’s just already in a bad mood...like, I told Engl’nd he wasn’t my friend...he got all mad…” 

And Italy, who did not give one single shit if England was ever happy again, gasped in exaggerated horror. 

"Yes," America confirmed, nodding his head sadly, "I was mean to ev'ryone today I guess..."

Italy ignored a small part of him that wanted to remark that this was on par with America's usual level of cruelty. 

"You upset me today, America," he said instead, swallowing down a rush of fear that came ever so naturally to him, "I thought we were getting closer, and...and we seemed...but you were so dismissive!"

Spain and Romano were eyeing them, finding it within themselves to stop sucking face for several minutes in a row. They were several chairs away, making it impossible to eavesdrop, but Romano's calculated look made it very obvious that the two wanted Italy to step away from America. The way Romano was squeezing at his empty glass only confirmed it. But Italy's nose still throbbed, and he'd apparently lost contingency money, so he figured throwing caution to the wind and getting his face punched in for the second time would just be the icing on the cake.

But America did not look particularly aggressive. 

"'M sorry," he repeated, looking genuinely somber, "I just...I'd had an off day. A bad day. I..." and he leaned in conspiratorially, eyes darting in all directions rapidly as if to check for any eavesdroppers in their vicinity. Italy, despite himself, leaned into America's proximity as well.

"I think I love him," America said, and pulled away completely, making a grab for the nearest full glass on the table, which happened to be some awful vermouth mixed with juice that Prussia had concocted. Italy's jaw dropped in shock. 

"Ve...you...you love - who, England?" his face must have been an interesting shade of red because both Spain and Romano looked ready to jump out of their seats and physically maneuver America away from Italy. To prevent this, Italy frantically waved his hand at them, hoping they would get the hint to remain calm. America seemed to notice none of this. 

"I know I don't really act like it," America said, sounding far more sober than he had all night, "but I just like everything about him. You know? When I left him, it was the greatest day of my life...and the worst. And I just never stopped thinking about him. Like, I hated his stupid guts when he was flaunting all over the place, bragging about being this great empire or whatever, but I couldn't...I..."

"And then during the wars," he continued, obligingly glossing over Italy's role in that particular time period, "All I had ever felt for him just kind of flooded back. You know? I wanted to save him, but I admired him so much at the same time, and he made me laugh with how stupid he was on the front lines sometimes...did you know he somehow got hit by, like, a shooting star once, then bitched about the headache it gave him for weeks? Didn't comment on the impossibility of galactic space rocks hurtling from the sky and into his skull? It's stupid, but it's _so_ England..."

"And, I know..." here he paused, toying with the emptied glass, looking straight on and avoiding even a single glance in Italy’s direction. All the surrounding brawls and music had become muffled in Italy's shock; the bar had gone out of focus, somehow, and the only thing Italy could concentrate on was America, who had never, ever, poured his heart out to another nation in his life. Somehow, it was Italy's heart that felt constricted, as if the solemnity America was expressing was Italy's own. "I know it's not really normal. Nations are old as balls and they fall in love with like three-hundred people in their lifetime, and they have all these affairs and I just...I've never fallen out of love with him. Not once. Not when my government and my people stopped giving a shit about him. Not when I told him to his face that I wouldn't help him when his country was being torn apart. Not even when - god it's so fucked up - when he burned down my...I just..." 

"So you've never been with anybody else?" Italy interrupted, sitting on the edge of his seat, struggling not to look as shaken as he felt. 

America shrugged. "I've, uh, slept with a few people. Quite a few I guess. But I wouldn't say I fell in love with any of them. Closest thing to that was with Japan, but even then _England_ busts out of _nowhere_ and makes all these treaties with Japan and I am not sure their relationship was constrained only to paperwork -"

He was gripping his glass so tightly cracks began to form on the edges. The mood of the bar was different now. The previously cheery lanterns by their table seemed exploitative, lighting up America's conflicted expression. The general ambiance had become oppressive in the wake of his confession. 

...And to think, Italy had though he and America could hook up after a few weeks of hanging out...

"Mio Dio..." Italy finally said after a minute of solid silence, "Wow. I mean...warn a guy next time, America, Jesus..." 

"I didn't know you used the Lord's name in vain," America said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Italy immediately smacked his bicep and ignored America's responding yelp.

"Ve, you cannot say something like that and go to sleep!" Italy fumed, "America you cannot bottle up your feelings!"

"Works for Germany," America immediately responded. "And you forget,” he added, with the air of someone quoting an oft-repeated line, “I come from the British school of personal conduct, which stipulates that every emotion must be repressed and burrowed deep inside your shriveled heart until the day you die." 

Italy merely shook his head in disbelief. He might not be particularly good at reading the mood or atmosphere, but he knew himself well enough to understand that one did not hold something of that magnitude in their heart for four hundred years or so. 

"I can't believe I tried to date you," he finally said, reaching for the nearest abandoned bottle of alcohol and taking an ambitious gulp. "You're worse than Germany."

America looked rather offended, but Germany, France, England, and Prussia chose that exact moment to return to their seats, deeply disappointed that no one had loaned them instruments. America and Italy were separated as Germany shoved a chair in between them and began to grasp at any bottles that were not yet empty. America shot Italy a meaningful look, silently begging him to keep America's secret. Italy pretended not to see him. 

"Wot kind of a bar don't ‘ave at least one guitar?" England bitched, immediately pulling everyone's attention to him, including America's. His grammar, of course, was on a ruinous path, but Italy had too many other thoughts whirling around in his head to pay England any mind.

It could have been the drink, or the magnitude of America’s confession, but Italy needed somebody to talk to. And despite Romano’s fervent glances at him from across the table, he felt he needed a little distance from his brother tonight (especially once Romano found out that America had flat footedly rejected Italy then got himself wasted right after). Instead he turned to Germany.

His ex had seen better days. His hair was mussed, probably from Prussia’s manhandling, and his eyes seemed to sink into his face, half-covered by his severe furrowed brows. They, of course, had nothing on England’s, but they were looking rather wild, especially considering that Germany’s meticulous cleanliness extended to his personal grooming habits as well. 

Italy briefly thought about all the emotional agony Germany had caused him, and the rather immature way he’d reacted to America’s personal visit to Italy’s home. He remembered how absolutely uptight and annoying the German could be, and about his obsession with unfunny German romantic comedies.

He also remembered how eager Germany was to gossip about nation’s love lives when his guard was down, and he was sure nobody else was listening to him…

Reacting quickly, trying not to think about the consequences of his course of action, Italy tugged at Germany’s sturdy sleeve, which he had rolled up all the way to his elbow. Italy pawed at him incessantly until Germany turned, brows furrowed even deeper and confusion lining his face.

“...Ja?” he slurred, a sign of his deepening intoxication. Italy tried not to smile at how lost he looked. 

“I need to tell you something,” Italy said.

Germany frowned, scrunched up his nose, and briefly turned around. He seemed to spot Romano glaring daggers at the pair of them because he turned to face Italy again rather quickly. “Me?” 

This time, Italy did smile. “Ve, you. Come on.” 

He pulled at Germany’s arm, indicating the German should stand up. Thankfully, England and Prussia had started some ruckus at their table, which attracted the attention of everyone present- including Romano. Italy was aware that the drink in his veins was guiding his every step, but he felt giddy and giggly, like a schoolgirl with a secret, and as he led Germany to the front entrance of the bar, he briefly mused that finding out he had no chance with America had not been even a quarter as devastating as thinking he could never be with Germany again. 

Italy dragged Germany out into the night, the cool air coming as a shock after the crowded and noisy bar. Stopping just outside, a little ways away from the door, he dropped Germany’s sleeve and felt a guilty thrill run through him when the German didn’t step away and instead remained close. It was beginning to get chilly - he could see Germany’s breath when he exhaled. He’d made the right decision however; already, he felt steadier and more in control, though the giddiness in his chest had yet to flee. 

Germany also seemed a little surer of himself, shaking off the shock of being ceremoniously dragged outside. The two of them hadn’t been alone together in a long time, something Italy was realizing the longer he stood, drinking in the sight of Germany. Despite his tired eyes and rather drooping shoulders, Italy had to admit the German still cut a fine figure.

As the silence dragged on, Germany shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. 

“Well?” he asked, in an uncharacteristically hesitant tone.

Italy snapped to attention, shaking off his musings. “America just told me something,” he began.

\---------------  
England tried, for seemingly the fifth time that night, not to shove America off of his lap and onto the dirty pub floor. Repressing this instinct was difficult, as England had a very general rule when it came to touching America - _don’t_. It hadn’t ever really been a problem before now; America might have occasionally leaned into England’s side, or elbowed him in jest, but he had never so fragrantly - and there was no other way to describe it - _draped_ himself over England’s lap and chest, occasionally even shoving his fat face into the crook of England’s neck. 

The alcohol was not helping England’s control. He felt dizzy - dizzy from America’s scent, and his warmth, and his stupid deep laughter that rumbled from his chest every time Prussia or Romano opened their mouths. 

_Don’t be an arsehole,_ England kept repeating in his mind, _Don’t act rashly. He is your friend only, and he’s knackered, and he needs your help. You want him to be happy. YOU WANT HIM TO BE HAPPY._ The mantra sounded through his head like war drums beaten at the mouth of a cave. And yet, when America clutched at his waist for the third time that night, England felt his final nerve snap. 

“I need some air,” he muttered, standing up abruptly and sending America tumbling to the floor. He quickly helped America back up onto his chair, taking care not to touch anything but his forearms, and did not reply to America’s inquiry of “Wh’t, huh? Wher’re you go’ng?” He then immediately darted toward the door and out of America’s peripheral vicinity. Thankfully, nobody else had noticed his strange behavior, and Prussia quickly pulled America into his and France’s conversation, stopping the superpower from following England. He breathed a sigh of relief. 

_Don’t be an arsehole. Don’t act rashly. He is your friend only, and he’s knackered, and he needs your help. _He avoided a crowd of obviously underage French teenagers, who seemed to be extremely excited about a bottle of brandy they had just procured. _You want him to be happy. You WANT him to be happy. Don’t be an arsehole._ When he finally passed them, he lost sight of America and the rest of their table. The door loomed ever closer, a potential escape from one of the most emotionally draining nights he’d had this decade. _Don’t act rashly. He is your friend. He is knackered._ The oak door was heavy - somehow, he hadn’t noticed when they’d first arrived. Perhaps Germany had been the one to push it open. _He needs your help. _Its weight prevented England from simply slamming it open and fleeing into the night - instead, he carefully pushed at it, careful not to draw any attention to himself. The last thing he needed was anyone catching sight of him now.____

_You want him to be happy._

____He pushed against the door with every intention of running to his hotel room and burrowing underneath every blanket he could find, calling Scotland for good measure - his brother wanted England to share more, after all, and this is clearly what he meant. However, before England could step into the chilled night, he stopped in his tracks._ _ _ _

____Because there, not even fifteen feet from the door, were Germany and Italy, standing closer to each other than England had seen them in _years _.___ _ _ _

______“America told me something,” Italy was saying, and England immediately felt his breath catch in his throat. Italy’s voice carried - England crouched back into the entryway, propping the door open with his foot. Germany’s back was to England, but he could clearly see Italy, his smug expression illuminated by the surrounding street lights. His idiotic curl was bouncing, seemingly of its own volition; England, for the first time, wanted to viciously tear it out of Italy’s skull._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Italy, I have not cared about what America has had to say for decades now,” Germany said. His voice carried too._ _ _ _ _ _

______“He’s in love,” Italy said, and England felt his temper rise to a nuclear level for the third time that night. He gripped at the surrounding door frame, glaring at Italy with such potent force that it was honestly surprising the Mediterranean nation did not implode from the intensity._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Two weeks is enough for that, is it?” Germany replied, and England physically had to tear himself away from the door before he stomped over to the duo and instigated an international incident._ _Don’t be an arsehole, don’t act rashly -______

_Why SHOULDN’T I act rashly?!_ A brand new internal voice thundered, sounding incredibly like the one that prompted England to get into bar fights. _Italy is clearly using his - his -_ wiles _to get into America’s trousers, nevermind that he’s actively pursuing Germany as well, a-and - and he’s treating America’s feelings as a bloody _joke!_ And he had the NERVE to call me a tart -_

________“Enough,” England said out loud like a lunatic, and smacked himself for good measure. He breathed in deeply and slumped to the floor of the bar. America probably wouldn’t appreciate England’s protective streak - he never had. So what if a hoe-bag and his boy toy were planning on ruining America and his emotional capabilities? England certainly didn’t care! And he knew America wouldn’t want him to care. So everything was fine. Bloody dandy._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Don’t be an arsehole,” he said again for good measure and stood up (the slight tumble he took into a pudgy mustachioed man was thankfully seen by no one). Resolving not to interfere in America’s business, he marched resolutely back and slammed down onto his chair._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________And if America went right back to wrapping his arms around England’s hunched shoulders...well, England couldn’t exactly push him off, yes? America was notoriously strong after all._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________\-----_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Italy, I have not cared about what America has had to say for decades now,” Germany said, indulging in exaggeration he didn’t often utilize. A year ago his dismissive tone would have frustrated Italy. Now the giddiness took a firmer hold._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“He’s in love,” Italy said, failing to stop the wonderment coloring his words. To his eternal surprise, Germany’s face twisted, his neutral countenance becoming rather ugly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Two weeks is enough for that, is it?” he said with a prominent scowl. Italy shook his head and grinned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Try two centuries. And then add a few more for good measure.” Germany’s scowl did not drop, though he looked a tad intrigued. “He’s in love with England.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Germany immediately snorted, and Italy was happy to see his expression lose some of its intensity. “With England? Maybe in the bastard’s dreams. America doesn’t love, Italy. Unless it’s an airplane. Or a spaceship. Or a Kardashian, I don’t know what he is into these days.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“He told me so himself,” Italy said, and finally, Germany looked truly intrigued. While it was true that America did not discuss his personal affairs often, he also never exaggerated or made things up in regards to his romantic relationships (everything else, of course, was fair game)._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You’re lying,” Germany said, but immediately darted past Italy toward the door of the bar. He cracked the door open and peeked in, and assumedly looked for their party inside. Italy watched Germany observe them for a solid two minutes, shivering slightly all the while. He pulled his suit jacket closed, and wished for the second time that night he’d changed into something more comfortable and loose. The first time, of course, had been when England was chasing him up a tree and swearing to rip his limbs off. It had truly been an exciting night._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Germany finally seemed to spot an interaction which satisfied him, because he returned to his previous position, mouth gaping open._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“How did I…” he started, “I completely missed...he’s lying on England’s lap right now, I don’t understand how we…”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Italy shrugged. “I didn’t see it either,” he said simply._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Well no one would have expected you to,” Germany said, cracking the smallest of smiles. Italy found himself grinning brightly in response, before he abruptly remembered this was their first interaction in six months that hadn’t ended in tears and threats of violence (from Romano, of course)._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Obviously sensing the lighthearted atmosphere vanish, Germany sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing it even further._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Why are you telling me this, Italy?” he asked quietly, looking the smaller man in the eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Italy felt his giddy mood slowly evaporate. He couldn’t look at Germany._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Ve...well, he just told me, and I got so excited I had to tell someone!” he laughed, trying to restore the jovial atmosphere. His hands waved excitedly. Germany’s eyes never left his face._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Yes, but...why _me_?” he repeated, leaning forward to emphasize his point._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It was true, Italy mused, that after six months of avoidance the whole situation must have seemed strange to Germany. But, to be honest-_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I missed you,” Italy admitted, lifting one shoulder. Still not looking at Germany, he studied other interesting things around them. The ugly light fixture. The suspicious puddle on the pavement. One of the buttons on Germany’s shirt._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I missed you too,” Germany said lowly. Italy jerked his head up and met Germany’s gaze. To his surprise, in the dim light Italy noticed a light blush was beginning to creep over the other man’s fair complexion._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Italy smiled, and held out his hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Want to go back inside?” he asked. Germany reached out and Italy grabbed his hand, intertwining their fingers. As he opened the door to the bar, Italy flushed when he felt Germany’s hand tighten incrementally around his own. They wound their way back to the table, avoiding a rather sizeable crowd of French teenagers that had gathered around a makeshift dance floor. When they finally arrived, it seemed that the manic fun had drained out of the group - even Romano looked too tired to immediately latch onto Italy holding hands with Germany, a fact that Italy was immensely grateful for. France, Spain, and Prussia all seemed busy in a typical tale of drunken reminiscence, spilling their drinks and themselves all over the table. America was still draped all over England. Italy took a moment to feel bad for the pair’s centuries-long obliviousness, but the pity quickly fled as he felt Germany’s hand move in his._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _ _ _

________\--------------_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________For all of America’s wild swings from sobriety to complete debauchery, the current shitshow had to be the worst one. Three glasses of wine later and he literally could not utter a syllable without dissolving into giggles. Even England, who may have had a tiny _thing_ for America ever since he became powerful and attractive, had to admit this was an embarrassing display. When the bespectacled nation spilled his last glass of rosé into his own lap, England decided it was time to call it a night. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________But since the universe was apparently hell-bent on making this the _best_ night of England’s life, he glanced up from handing America a stack of flimsy bar napkins just in time to see Italy stride brazenly back into the bar, holding hands with Germany for all of God and country to see._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The napkins crumpled in his grip. _Is he honestly going to waltz in here and shove this in Alfred’s face?!_ England’s bar fight voice hissed. _It was bad enough, knowing the two of them were laughing behind his back...but now, what could they possibly want except to absolutely ruin him?_

That was it. England may have promised to stay out of this, but he wasn’t going to stand idly by and watch Italy, that strumpet, stomp all over Alfred’s heart. It really was time to go. 

________“Welp, that’s all for us chaps, then,” he announced to the group at large, rather cheerily for someone who was imagining Italy being tossed out of a high window. America leaned heavily into England’s side, snorting into his empty wine glass. He hadn’t even lifted his head. If any deity in the world had any favor left for America, they would keep him from noticing Italy and Germany’s flaunted love. Given the superpower’s state of inebriation, England thought that perhaps he might get lucky in this regard. England fought every urge to fondly stroke America’s messy hair - thankfully he had a century’s worth of practice restraining himself - and instead glared at Italy expectantly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Does anybody want to help me drag this tub of lard back to his hotel?” he inquired politely, voice completely at odds with his venomous expression. _Last chance, Italy._ Germany didn’t meet his eyes, and Italy quickly shrugged. 

“You look like you can handle it, Inghilterra,” he chirped, looking rather proud of his absolute uselessness. England scowled. _That bastard._ One last chance to act decently, to even try to keep up the charade of interest in America, and he hadn’t taken it. Now England had no choice but to interfere, and America would get angry the next morning that England had the _gall_ to butt in like a parental figure, and England would have to explain that, actually, maybe America bloody still needed a parental figure if he was going to start throwing his heart at trollops like Italy -- 

_Don’t be an arsehole. Right._

________“Of course I can,” he sniffed, grabbing America’s bicep rather roughly, “I suppose I wouldn’t want to interrupt your happy reunion. I hope you report it to your boss soon Italy - we wouldn’t want you to break protocol.” He tried his damndest to walk away cooly, letting Italy contemplate and admire England’s ability to turn Italy’s own arguments against him, but of course America immediately crashed into a chair and England abandoned all hope of seeming in control._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“C’mon love,” he said in an annoyed tone. To his surprise, America looked at him with something resembling adoration._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“D..D’you know I like it when you shay ‘sat?” America slurred, and England felt himself flushing. America had been saying things like that all night, and acting unusually affectionate. However, England couldn’t afford to hope - he’d let that ship sail long ago. And besides, he hadn’t seen America this wasted in literal centuries. Perhaps this was how he normally behaved and England just never knew. Regardless, the best course of action was to move forward, get America away from any breakable furniture, and stop thinking about punching Italy in the neck every thirty seconds. All easier said than done._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I said come ON,” England repeated and managed to hoist America up once more. With England’s (relatively) steady support, the two managed to escape the oppressive bar atmosphere in one piece, leaving the Italian bastard far behind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England breathed a sigh of relief once they were outside. The thick mist that had descended upon the Parisian streets was comforting in its darkness and chill - it reminded England of his own capital. The surrounding grey was also familiar, as was their attempt to stagger home. However, with a small smile, the Briton acknowledged that for once, it wasn’t America confidently striding home with a stumbling England in tow. Still, America’s footsteps were reassuring. Steady, despite America’s reliance on England as a crutch. He didn’t slip on any of the cobblestones or trash that littered France’s streets, which were now wet from a slight dew._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England indulged himself slightly, and leaned into America’s side. It was an absurd thing, how much taller America had grown than England. How much more mature. It was silly, but recently England had felt like the child in comparison to America - making remarks about dreamy fairies while America spoke about journalistic integrity, insisting on meetings in pubs while America advocated for multilateral action committees...England was relieved to see that underneath that cool exterior was an America still stupid enough to get blitzed and unironically sing ‘Drink up me hearties’._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________They walked for several minutes in total silence. America was able to eventually stand completely on his own, and England tried not to marvel at his aggressively quick metabolism._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I think I’ve figured out why all those cheeseburgers don’t make you fat,” England grinned, feeling bold enough to poke at America’s abs, “You’ve got the metabolism of the Terminator!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Please don’t make pop-culture references, you always fuck them up,” America grunted, sans giggles. He still looked rather disoriented, but England figured their little morning walk had breathed some life (and sobriety) into America once more. “Ugh. I feel dishgusting.” A pause. “And don’t...say anything, I can hear myself slurring,” he added with more deliberation._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Well I think you’re adorable when you sound like an imbecile,” England teased. Clearly America was still drunk, but he was crashing and likely no longer delirious. “C’mon, we’re nearly there. Can you make it without vomiting? I’ll bet you three-hundred pounds you can’t.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You don’t have that kind of money,” America said dismissively. He sounded distant, and more than a little exhausted. England’s grin faded marginally - clearly, as America fell back into sobriety’s sweet embrace, he remembered himself and recalled that he did not have an affectionate relationship with England. Which was...good. It was safe. And America was clearly feeling better, which was probably England’s cue to go. They were right by America’s swanky hotel anyway._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Well, I suppose I’d best be off -” England tried to say, but was interrupted when America crashed headfirst into a strategically placed lamppost. England pursed his lips, staring at America as the younger nation groaned in apparent agony._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to make sure America got into his room safely after all…  
\-------------_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________They managed to get through the lobby of the hotel and into the elevator with little incident - America, whose head was now throbbing for a myriad of reasons, cursed himself (who decided that last round of shots was a good idea?!) as England pushed the button for America’s floor._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“How’d you know what room I would be in?” he asked, slightly surprised at England’s assuredness. England shrugged._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You always book those extravagant top-floor penthouses. You whine and bitch about trying to save money, you demand to room with me, then you book one anyway - happens every time, like clockwork.” England shot him a small smile, and America didn’t quite know what he was getting at._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The elevator dinged, and the wide doors slid open to reveal the carpeted hallway. England strode out without looking backward to see if the other man was following._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America tried to clear his head - the alcohol was still thrumming through his veins, and not even his Herculean metabolism could get through it quickly enough - and walked slowly behind the Brit. It struck him that England walked in a rather effeminate manner, and America tried very hard not to see any appeal in the way the Brit moved._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Here’s your palace,” England said once the two had arrived at America’s hotel room. America stopped right behind England, stumbling a bit. America’s chest nearly touched England’s back; this was probably an inappropriate amount of space between two platonic friends. But as he’d been doing all night, America figured he could use the alcohol thrumming through his veins as an excuse, and took the opportunity to completely lean into England’s frame. But no amount of alcohol could disguise the way England stiffened at the contact. Had he been doing that all night, every time America got close? His heart sank, and America took a step back._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Sorry, felt a lil’ dizzy,” he said, letting a bit of slur bleed back in for added effect._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________In the moment, America noticed that the smaller man smelled very strongly of smoke - America supposed the bar could largely be blamed for that - but he still had an undercurrent of his expensive yet subtle cologne. America tried to inconspicuously breathe it in, though he was slightly worried his own perception of subtlety had been muddled all night._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“...Are you going to hand me your key, or did you somehow manage to leave it - along with your dignity - at the bar?” England snarked, looking back over his shoulder at America._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Oh. That._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America fumbled at the pocket of his jeans, finally producing the plastic key emblazoned with the hotel’s pretentious logo. He handed it off to England- no sense reaching around and making him more uncomfortable- and watched with amusement as the Briton tried the key once, twice, with no result._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Are you having trouble using basic technology?” America asked with staccato precision, taking care not to slur. He could feel his mind getting steadily clearer - his metabolism truly did deserve all the praise England and others threw at it. “You’ve swiped it three times now. Are we in the right room, D.D.? Or D.W. I should say, haha.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America watched with fascination as the tips of England’s ears steadily flushed red. “I - erm,” he said eloquently, now almost frantically swiping at the door. “We’re, er, of course we’re at the right room. Bloody French contraptions never work properly.” Then, as if to prove him wrong, the light by the handle flashed green, and the door unlocked. England immediately sprung inside, leaving America to flounder and catch himself with both hands on the doorframe._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America followed England in, zeroing in on the bed that the Briton was standing by._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It. Looked. Heavenly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Of course, America had seen it a few hours ago, but since then it had become thirty times more appealing. The bedframe was enormous. The pillows were fluffy. The sheets were numerous and held the potential for a great pillow fort, always a high priority concern for hotel rooms. They also happened to be decorated in a slightly gaudy manner, with bright stripes and a rather obnoxious green square in the middle, which of course suited America’s tastes perfectly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Suddenly overtaken by a feeling of intense exhaustion, America began to strip, taking care to toss his jacket onto a nearby chair. He bypassed England, who looked like he was choking on some particularly chunky dust particles, and toed his shoes off at the edge of the bed. He proceeded to flop onto the pillows, momentarily forgetting Texas’ existence - the glasses didn’t break, of course, because only famine and Planned Parenthood could break Texas, so America fumbled them off with relative ease and slammed them on the nearby nightstand. It took him a solid twenty seconds to remember that he was not alone in his bedroom, and he turned his head in a rather Exorcist inspired fashion until he was facing England once more._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Arthur,” he said carelessly, and ignored the sudden intake of air from across the room, “Why are you standing in the corner of my room like a creepypasta knockoff. C’mere.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England shook his head. Despite the lighting in the room, America couldn’t really make out his expression. “I should be headed back to my own room. I just wanted to make sure you were alright...you know, for my sake. Everyone would blame me if you went missing!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America rolled his eyes. “Eager to get back to Denmark and his four am conversations with Norway?” He smirked at England’s sudden fidgeting - clearly the Brit had forgotten he had a roommate awaiting him at home. “Seriously, come over here.” He patted the small space he’d left on the bed on his left side. “You’re being totally anal. You’re already here, we’ve only got a few hours to rest anyway.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________This was okay, right? America realized he’d been acting handsy all night, but he didn’t think it was particularly otherworldly - sure, America wasn’t _usually_ a touchy person, but England had never been in the position of being the more sober of the two, so how would he know if this was normal behavior or not? Not to mention, England’s brothers were always putting their arms across his shoulders, or casually wrapping their hands around his hips, so surely it was alright for the two of them to lay in the same bed? It hadn’t happened since the tented bunks of WWII - and of course those had been entirely different circumstances - but England platonically shared his bed with other nations all the time. Why shouldn’t he do so with America as well? _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England looked ready to give in. America gave his best puppy dog eyes and patted the space next to him one more time. England finally sighed, muttered something about ‘wankers’ and ‘codependency’, and carefully walked towards America’s offered sleeping location. America’s heart suddenly thundered in his chest, but he ignored it, relying on a steady mantra of _it’s fine because I won’t do anything and he doesn’t want to do anything so we are just going to sleep and it’s going to be okay_. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________\-------  
England gnawed on his lip as he stood in the center of America’s lavish suite, staring at the younger man sprawled across his bed. It was a giant bed in an even more ostentatious room, but the space that America had ever so kindly left him was looking smaller and smaller by the second. ________

_Well, you’ve cocked it up now,_ he thought. The memory of America casually tossing out “Arthur” was replaying on constant loop in his head, and there was no chance of his stupid heart letting it go. God, America must have been absolutely knackered if he actually called England by name. He most certainly didn’t mean to. 

He should go. He really, really should go. He just wanted to make sure America got back safely, and here he was, perfectly safe lying in his giant bed with his stupid hair all messy and his stupid sleepy eyes, telling England to _stay_ and calling him Arthur… 

But England had always been a glutton for self-punishment, hadn’t he, never knowing when to let anything go. 

“Bloody Nordic wankers, entirely too codependent,” he muttered under his breath as he crossed the room, wincing internally. He sincerely hoped America was already nearly asleep, because that excuse was so flimsy even Poland would have seen right through it, and laughed his ass off. 

“Shoes,” America mumbled, halting England at the edge of the bed. 

________“What?” he asked, taken off guard. America rolled his head to the side and looked at him balefully._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Take your damn shoes off,” he grumped, turning his face back into the comforter._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Well excuse me, Your Highness,” England snapped, toeing off his oxfords._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Nah, that’s more your deal, isn’ it?” America replied, voice muffled by the expensive - and extremely ugly - sheets._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England huffed in exasperation, and threw himself down onto the bedspread with enough force to jostle the larger man. He held himself as still as he could and tried to calm his nerves._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Happy?” he snarked, although his voice sounded pitifully weak to his own ears. But banter had never failed him before._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America hummed into the mattress, and then England nearly had a heart attack when, in the next breath, America wormed his way into England’s space and draped himself all over the smaller man’s chest, tucking a hand under his side and dropping his head on England’s shoulder with a huff._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Must be jus’ like home,” America said sleepily into England’s shirt._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Just friends just friends just friends,_ England frantically chanted in his head, trapped in place. _Why is he_ doing _this?! It cannot actually be possible for him to be this oblivious._

_And besides,_ England’s vicious inner monologue continued, _he loves Italy. Not you._

________England had nearly forgotten that small tidbit, what with all the unexpected compliments and drunken cuddling. A yawning pit of guilt opened in his stomach. He couldn’t sit here and - and take advantage of America, especially not of a drunk and sleep-soft America._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________So even though it pained him to do so, England managed to free his arm from America’s bulk and gently shove at his shoulder._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Hey, hey, don’t fall asleep. And quit smothering me, you git.” England blew out a breath. Well, here went nothing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I have something I need to tell you,” he added quietly, unable to keep the heaviness from his voice._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He could feel the exhaustion leaving America, as the younger nation tensed. England remained pressed into the mattress, staring at the ceiling, as America sat up._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding much more awake. England sat up slowly as America continued. “If it’s about all of this EU finance stuff, I’m sure it’ll be fine- even though I don’t really understand what the EU is in the first place, hah!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Grabbing at the diversion, England scoffed. “Don’t be daft, it has nothing to do with that. I...uh, look.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Swallowing, England forced himself to look at America’s face. It turned out to be a mistake, because the concern in America’s bright blue eyes just made England feel worse for what he was about to do._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I told myself I wouldn’t get involved,” he began slowly, looking away from America and onto the bedspread, which to be honest was not an improvement. “I said that it wasn’t my business, that I would just be happy for you both and move on, but I can’t NOT tell you, can I, that would be horrible of me.” England couldn’t keep his hands from jittering with nervous energy, so instead he slid off the bed and paced the room, avoiding America’s gaze._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________On his path across the room, England heard America’s voice from the bed, full of confusion. “England, what are you talking about?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Clearly England would have to tread carefully here. It had been a trying night already, to say the least, and the _last_ thing he needed right now was to speak too freely and let his feelings for America come tumbling out. He had held them in for this long, he could survive one more night. 

________“Alfred, you’re my - my best friend,” he said, choosing his words carefully. He felt a little guilty about using America’s name, when he remembered all too well his own reaction not ten minutes prior, but he wanted to make absolutely sure America was going to listen._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“And I know you have your own life and you probably won’t even listen to me, God knows you don’t most of the time, but we’re friends a-and friends don’t let friends get taken advantage of.” England was praying that America was catching on. He chanced a glance at America’s face, and was dismayed to notice that the (now un-)bespectacled nation looked just as confused as he had sounded before._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Christ. 

________“I’m talking about Italy, okay?!” England snapped, turning sharply on his heel and facing America head on. He could feel the anger rising in his chest - anger with Italy, with America for being so dense, and with himself for being such a lovestruck fool. Through clenched teeth, he gritted out, “I PROMISED I wouldn’t get involved but I just-you have to know-” he hesitated, trying to rein himself in, “Look, you may be unable to read most of even the most normal social situations-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Hey,” America interrupted, offended, but England barreled straight over him. “-but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to let him get away with- with- leading you on!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“What are you _talking_ about?” America asked helplessly. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________If it was possible to die from sheer obtuseness, England would be worried about America’s health. As it was, the Brit was feeling himself unravel. He continued talking over America, his voice growing louder in his agitation._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I saw him!” England cried. “Today! At the bar, outside, _with Germany_. He- Italy- said you were in- in LOVE with him.” He had to spit the word out of his mouth, all the way feeling not unlike it was tearing him up with a rather dull blade. “And then Germany-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Wait, what?!” America demanded, pushing himself off of the bed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“And then GERMANY,” England continued, shooting America a warning glance that clearly said _DON’T INTERRUPT_ , “well, he basically confirmed that they’ve been leading you on this whole time! And making a joke out of you!” he added, unable to keep the betrayal from his voice. “Italy and Germany are still together, and - and I saw, and I couldn’t let them hurt you -”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Wait, England, hang on -”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“And I KNOW that it’s none of my business and you’re probably going to tell me to fuck off, and I’m sorry,” England continued desperately, practically yelling now, “I’m SORRY, I promised I wouldn’t make a mess of things but I just can’t stand back and watch you make a RUIN of your LIFE because I CARE TOO MUCH ABOUT YOU!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England stopped cold and felt his eyes go wide, like a deer in the headlights. _Ohshit ohshit ohshit_ pounded through his head. One shaky breath in, then another. England could barely hear anything over his own frantic heartbeat, crashing in his ears. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America, still standing by the bed, was looking at him in disbelief, speechless for once in his damn life. Miserably, England congratulated himself on finding a way to shut the superpower up. All it took was, oh yes, accidentally tearing out your own fucking heart and punting it out the window like it was a football. He wished that America would say something, just to put England out of his own self-induced fucking misery, or maybe he wished that the floor would open up and swallow him whole, but it was all out now, wasn’t it Arthur you complete idiot, so now he would have to just see this through to the damned inevitable end._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England crossed his arms over his chest, hunching his spine down and trying to fold in as much as possible. Maybe if he was lucky, he would just disappear. He studiously avoided looking in America’s direction. Oh, what a lovely wall sconce. Fascinating._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“What?” America finally repeated, and when England tore his gaze away from the wall he was dismayed to find that America had taken a few tentative steps forward. Fantastic, so now England could experience rejection from even closer._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You heard me,” England muttered, glancing away again. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“No, I heard you,” America said. “But what. Does. That. Mean.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England was absolutely not going to answer that. He was going to come up with something, anything else to say and he was not going to answer that. Oh, hell, America really did need this spelled out for him, didn’t he, and God help him but England was going to tell him because he just can’t leave well enough _alone_ -_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’m in love with you, you daft idiot,” England bit out, staring at the ceiling in exasperation. And fear. A good dose of that as well. “And you’re in love with Italy. Don’t make this worse-” he cut off hastily, raising a hand in America’s direction as the other man made to step closer. “Really, it’s fine, just-”  
\---------------_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Stop,” America commanded, now stone cold sober. “England, stop it.” He tried to place his hands over England’s shoulders, intending to calm the Brit - England looked nearly catatonic at his approach, but America couldn’t let him back away now. “I’ve been trying to tell you!” He finally grasped England’s biceps, not quite believing what he was hearing. Could this really be happening? Was he really so oblivious that he missed something so - “Arthur, I’m not in love with Italy!” England immediately tried to wriggle out of America’s grasp, but for once, the superpower would not have it. “Stop it, I’m not! I never was. HE thought I was, because my ambassador...well, there was a trade agreement - and _really_ it was Romano’s fault that things got so out of hand - whatever, it’s a long story but I _swear_ to you, you absolute moron, I never loved Italy!” _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________But England did not look convinced. He stopped trying to escape America’s death grip, but shot him a rather dirty glare instead._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Then what the fuck were they talking about at the bar!?” he demanded, flushing bright red. America felt as if he were having heart palpitations - it was an out of place, absurd thought, but England looked extremely cute when he scrunched up his freckled nose in disdain. The younger nation took care not to smile at England’s feistiness - the Brit would probably take it as condescending instead of the utter adoration it actually was._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Probably about the fact that I’m in love with _you_ ,” America finally said, cupping England’s chin with his broad hand and tilting it up, prompting England to look directly at him, _for once_. England’s eyes were stupidly, intensely green, of course, and the freckles littering his face were perfect, and his eyebrows were ridiculous, and America thought he would actually explode from the amount of feelings whirling inside his human body. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You...you’re...what?” England finally said with tragic vulnerability. America wanted to punch him for his stupidity. England had always prided himself on his emotional intelligence, on his ability to read America like a book...HOW had he missed America’s constant excuses to bump into him, to feel his forehead, to nudge his arms? And seriously, _what_ was all this nonsense about Italy?!_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You heard me,” America parroted snootily, and narrowly avoided England’s attempt to smack him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England was silent, then, and suddenly nothing was stupid about him. The hold England had on America seemed to double in their quiet moment, and the full weight of England’s confession finally hit America like a ton of bricks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________He loves me,_ America thought, dazed. He felt as dizzy as he had at the bar, but with none of the accompanying sickness. The silence stretched; neither of them knew what to say. Was there an appropriate reaction to hearing that the person who you’d hopelessly lusted after and fell in love with perhaps, after all these agonizing years, also loved you back? It seemed far too good to be true, and not at all in-step with America’s karmic levels. And yet, England was there, truly _there_ , and he loved him, and now he knew that America loved him back. It was real. It was real, and their fight earlier on in the day, and Italy’s feelings for America, and England’s ever present jealousy - none of it seemed to matter. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________America lowered his hand to grab at England’s shoulder once more, then began to run both hands over England’s arms experimentally. The scratchy wool of England’s sweater was surprisingly thin, allowing America to feel the radiating warmth of the Englishman’s skin. For a second, England’s expression looked fearful, and America wondered whether it would be a good idea to back away now. But then, in a rather bold move, England threw off America’s hold, grabbed America’s hands, and guided them towards his waist instead. America very greedily followed his lead, grasping at England’s sides and pulling the smaller man closer to himself. England’s proximity was intoxicating - America didn’t know how to describe the feeling he got when he ran his palms over England’s hips._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You told that little bugger Italy that you loved me? Before you said anything to me?” England suddenly commented, and America indulged in a lazy grin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Give me a break,” America said, nearly jumping when England wrapped his arms around America’s neck. It felt surreal, having England touch him of his own volition. “I had just figured it out. Finally gave it a name. I had to tell someone, yeah?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England pouted slightly, and America almost - hand to god - lost all semblance of control. “You _just_ figured it out?” he immediately demanded, “I’ve been worried about you finding me out for nearly a century, and you just NOW figure it out, thanks to a couple of witless Italians and the frog’s terrible spending habits? Just my luck.” _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You know,” America said, grinning fully now, “I don’t like how eloquent you’re managing to be. Don’t I have some effect on your vocabulary, Shakespeare?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________England raised an eyebrow. “Not on my vocabulary, you don’t,” he said flatly. Then, before America could really wrap his head around the situation, England detangled America’s arms from his waist and _shoved _the taller man into the nearest wall, nearly causing a flamboyant painting to crash to the ground. America’s eyes widened in shock, while England began to stride toward him rather confidently with a predatory look plastered on his face. His effeminate gait was more pronounced this time around. America pressed himself closer to the wall.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________England stopped inches from America’s face, planting a palm over his chest in an effort to stabilize the both of them. He was shorter than America, of course, but it didn’t seem to matter when he’d gained control._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“And do I have any effect on you, Mr. I’m-so-above-it-all?” England asked, with a rather uncharacteristic smirk on his face. America gulped, prayed to every deity he’d ever believed in for moral support, and leaned down to press a kiss against England’s lips._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________England reacted instantaneously - he opened his mouth, moaning as America pressed against him. For all his previous showmanship, he immediately slumped against America’s chest, using only one hand to grab at America’s shirt for support. America didn’t mind, as it gave him a perfect opportunity to do something he’d often dreamt about: taking care not to break their kiss, he reached down, grasped England’s hips, and slid his hands further until he was grabbing his ass, groping perhaps a little too enthusiastically for an introductory kiss._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Shit,” he gasped, thankful that England had not punched him for his lewd behavior, “Fucking shit, you have such a nice a-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You know of all the compliments you’ve given me tonight, this is the one I appreciate the least,” England said, but America was pleased to note that he was flushed and smiling. The superpower laughed and shook his head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“What a shame, this is the only one I really meant.” Ignoring England’s squawk of protest, America reached for him again, this time grabbing England’s thighs and hoisting the Briton upward. England squealed in surprise (and America would not be forgetting that particular reaction for quite a while), but eventually got the hint and wrapped his legs obediently around America’s waist. He was looking down on America now, with his messy bangs falling into his eyes, and America couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be supporting England’s weight in this kind of circumstance._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________(He also took a moment to be grateful for his own strength - England was beautiful and sexy, with long legs and an adorable smile, but he was also heavy as all fuck and a lesser man would have dropped him immediately.)_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You’re an absolute dickhead Ameri - Alfred,” England said fondly. America turned them around, now pressing England’s back into the wall for support and taking the opportunity to run his hands firmly over the Briton’s legs. He felt immense gratification when the smaller man shuddered in his arms and tightened his legs around America’s waist._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Maybe,” he acknowledged, “But I love you. And you love me too.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“God, I do,” England whispered with reverence before leaning in to kiss America again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me! I am extremely grateful. It was fun, if hard, and hey - don't you trust me now when I say I'll finish a fic? Hmmmmm? <3
> 
> And as you can see, Germany and Italy's arc is not quite done you - the fundamental problems they had in the beginning of the fic are very much present. But on this night where their guard was down, they moved in the right direction.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize my characterizations seem a bit off for everyone, but this is my interpretation of the characters based on canon Hetalia, things I've seen in fandom that I like, and international relations.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Any feedback is appreciated.


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